


Haunted

by K_E_D



Series: Haunted [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Dark, Derek & Danny Friendship, F/F, F/M, Fighter Derek, Flashbacks, Foster Care, Hallucinations, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Molestation, Murder, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Torture, Trauma, Violent Thoughts, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:12:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4427924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_E_D/pseuds/K_E_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though they are strangers, Derek will never forget the terror on his face, the way he clawed at the walls, the sound of his voice growing hoarse as his screams tore his throat apart.</p><p>Or the way the door clanged as it slammed closed, the boy’s cries fading as he was dragged away.</p><p>**</p><p>After surviving a lifetime of abuse, two strangers meet out of pure chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Run

**Author's Note:**

> This story is pretty dark, but there is a happy ending. It's another Series, but all parts (save for one) after the first will have taken place in the past.
> 
> Warning about the slow build - it's very slow, as in the main pairing (sterek) do no meet until several chapters in. So, the excerpt in the summary doesn't appear until much later. Both Stiles and Derek are dealing with obstacles separately for much of the story, but eventually they'll be together.

“You get back here, you little shit!  When I find you, I’m gonna-"

 

Whatever threat the man was about to shout was drowned out by their harsh breathing and the swish-rustle of corn stalks.  Leaves slapped him in the face as he ran, the ground soft and giving-way under his feet.  The air was frigid against his skin, but her palm pressed against his was clammy; their knuckles turning white and nails digging in the tighter she gripped his hand.  Her silken locks billowed around her, the ends tickling his face as they whipped back at him.

 

“Are they still with us?” she asked between breaths.  He quickly looks over his shoulder, his gaze landing on three dark silhouettes desperately trying to keep stride.

 

“Yeah,” he breathes.

 

A gunshot echoes through the field, a deadly silence following it.  The five of them skid to a stop, eyes darting about for a way out.

 

“You hear that?” the man calls.

 

His fingers clench in hers and another hand grips the back of his shirt in panic.  That voice was much closer than it should have been.  Another shot rings out and his heart stutters.

 

“Now, I can be reasonable.  You come back now and I won’t have to use this.  You _run_ and well...I’ll kick your punishments into overdrive when I find you.  And I _will_ find you.  You can count on that,” he says.

 

Four pairs of eyes look to him, waiting for him to decide.  The pressure is immense, but it’s well deserved.  This was all happening because of him - because he had the brilliant idea to _escape_.  Now, as they stand trapped in a corn maze, he doesn’t know what he’d been thinking.

 

“What do we do?” someone behind him whispers.

 

Probably the one who had his shirt in a death grip.  Recognizing her voice, he can only imagine the fear locked in her big brown eyes, face framed by honey-blonde curls.

 

“We can’t go back.”

 

“He’s going to kill us if we don’t.”

 

“And what do you think will happen if we do?  You heard him...the punishments…”

 

“Stiles?”

 

He opens his mouth to tell them...he has no idea - to tell them that this great plan has utterly fallen apart.  They didn’t count on the guy being as smart as he was; didn’t count on him waiting at the front door with a wicked knowing grin on his face.  Well, _four_ of them hadn’t counted on it.  The last, the man’s _actual_ son, had warned them it wouldn’t work, that they’d be caught.  Then again, he’s the one advocating that they keep running now.

 

“Look what I’ve found.”

 

The deep gravelly voice sent adrenaline shooting through his body as Coach flicked on a flashlight.  His calm stance tells Stiles he’d been there for a few minutes already; probably just watching them argue.

 

“You,” he barks, pointing the barrel at his son.  “Get back to the house.   _Now_.”

 

The boy next to him trembles under the heavy weight of his father’s glare.  The sight of his wide scared eyes has Stiles finally making up his mind.  Before he can act, however, his other friend bum-rushes Coach.  It surprises the man long enough that the kid manages to knock him down.

 

“Run!” he yells as he struggles with the gun.

 

Stiles shakes his head numbly, not wanting to leave anyone behind.  None of the others move either.  Their minds are made up for them when the boy loses the fight.  His grip slips from the rifle and he quickly backs away, running full speed in the opposite direction.

 

“Come on, come on!”

 

He’s jerked back into motion, his arm almost pulled out of the socket, as they start to run again.  The gun goes off, followed by an agonized scream.  The taut pull of his shirt goes slack as the blonde who had a hold on it falls to the ground.  They all glance back and immediately slow as they take in her terrified expression.  His friend bulldozes his way back to her side, her name spilling from his lips frantically.  She’s lying on her back, pale hand turning red as she presses it against her side.

 

Stiles hears the rifle reload, but instead of shooting, Coach swings the butt of it towards the boy’s head.

 

“No!”

 

For the first time that night, his right hand is free.  It takes him a moment to realize it’s because she let go.  Stiles is paralyzed for a moment, the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.  Around him, it’s a blur of shouting, screaming, and blasts.  The man’s son pushes at him, face contorted as he yells.  Stiles stumbles back, more out of shock than anything else.

 

She’d let go to fight for the gun, to help their other friends.  His gaze flicks between the struggle and the boy in front of him, still pushing at him, yelling something at him.  As he focuses, sound rushes in all at once.

 

“Go, go! Leave them!”

 

Stiles’ jaw drops more than it already had.

 

“No...I can’t...I _won’t_ leave them behind!” he shouts, pushing back.  To his surprise, the usually timid boy, shoves him away hard.

 

“Yes, you can.  You _have_ to,” he says.  Stiles takes a breath to argue, but the kid doesn’t let him.  “No.  You’re the only one who can get out.  Stiles, you’re the _only one_.”  They stare at each other, both breathing hard, as his words sink in.  “I can’t leave, but _you_ can,” he whispers.  He takes a step back, shaking his head when Stiles tries to follow.  “Go.  Get help.  Tell someone.  Please.”

 

With that, the boy turns away, head hanging low as he marches back to his father.  Still unsure, Stiles starts to back away further into the maze.  If he left them, it wasn’t guaranteed he’d find his way out and be able to get help.  What if he just ended up walking in circles?  What would be the point of any of this then?

 

A scream has him stumbling and when his gaze snaps in that direction, he finds the answer he was looking for.  She’s down on the ground, her chestnut hair flowing into the dirt, drops of scarlet budding along her lip.  But it’s her eyes and the subtle nod of her head that convince him.  Her big brown eyes that are always so full of anger are brimming with a small sheen of hope.

 

Hope that maybe someday - someday soon - this could all be over.  All she wants is for him to try and he will.  After returning the gesture, he spins on his heel and takes off.  He won’t stop, won’t rest, until he finds a way out of this field.  It doesn’t matter how long it will take, how hard it will be.  Stiles makes a silent vow to himself - and to her - that he’ll make it out, get the help they so desperately need, and come back for them.

 

He’ll save them.  He _will_.


	2. The Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tries – and fails – to hide his startled reaction at the hushed voice in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: both characters have been abused horribly, not just Stiles

The sterile white bandage he’d applied to his hand was already soaked, but he didn’t have the motivation to change it.  Didn’t matter anyway.  Either it’d heal or he’d catch some incurable virus, inevitably dying a horrible death.   _Would that be so bad?_

 

Derek sighs, holding back a grimace as he moves the fingers of his right hand.  Something was probably broken, but like he said, it didn’t matter.

 

“Why the long face, man?”

 

An even heavier sigh escapes him as his momentary peace is violated.  It was dark in the alley, but it was easy to place the voice.

 

“What do you want?” he grumbles.

 

He doesn’t bother to get up and greet the kid.  They had no respect for each other.  No point in faking it.  Aiden hisses in a breath, squinting at the bloody bandage.

 

“Damn, you did some real damage tonight,” he says, grinning wide.

 

Derek frowns as the guy’s brother joins them.  Ethan throws him a wad of cash, which he easily snatches out of the air.

 

“That’s your cut for tonight.  Keep it up and maybe you’ll get promoted,” he chuckles.

 

Derek doesn’t have a response for that, seeing as they already know his opinion on being ‘promoted’.  He didn’t want nor need it.  The fights were enough.  The fights kept him amped up, kept him busy.  Derek already promised himself he’d never get too deep into the business.  Being promoted would definitely null that promise.

 

The twins thankfully leave him be after that, returning to The Den – the cleverly nicknamed basement of the Jungle Dance Club.  Derek slipped on his jacket, biting his lip as his bruised muscles protest.  Tonight’s fight wasn’t all that difficult, but he’d been in the ring four nights in a row this week.  It was definitely starting to take a toll.  But he had to keep going, had to finish out the week.  He’d signed up for the next three nights and this weekend was a special.  Friday was ‘double or nothing’ and Saturday he was assigned to the ‘death cage’.  He’d never been in that one before, but it was a much higher pay than the smaller fights.  He figures he’ll do it once and see how it goes.  Either he wins or dies.  If he wins, then it’ll be worth it.  If he dies…well, that’s the end of his problems, isn’t it?

 

“Heard you won.”

 

He tries – and fails – to hide his startled reaction at the hushed voice in his ear.  Trying to make up for it, he spins on the guy and shoves him back.  He stumbles into the wall, raising his hands in surrender.

 

“Sorry, sorry, bad idea,” Danny says.

 

He relaxes again after Derek gives a brief nod.  The kid sighed, shoulders slumping apologetically.

 

“Guess I’m still in club mode.  Didn’t mean anything by it,” he says with a shrug.  Derek huffs and turns away, knowing the kid will follow.  “But you did, right?  You won?”

 

Derek nods, but doesn’t say anything.  He glances over, frowning at the tightness of the guy’s clothing, and the subtle amount of glitter still clinging to his skin.  That job was gonna get him into trouble one day – dancing on a stage for complete strangers.  Then again, he can’t really judge.  Danny’s not the one who just beat a man bloody in a wire cage.

 

On a delayed reaction, Danny grins, slaps him on the back, and says “Great.  You’re paying for dinner.”

 

The stilted breath Derek sucked in on impact went – thankfully – unnoticed.  They climb into his sleek black Camaro and Danny instinctively reaches for the radio knob, before remembering Derek’s rules and quickly snatching his hand back.  He scowls at the kid, who simply shrugs it off.  He fiddles with the radio himself before racing onto the road, heading for the tiny Chinese place they like.

 

Danny doesn’t say anything before he goes to get the food and he remains silent on the way to his apartment.  When they pull up, Derek thinks he’s free for the night, but the kid suddenly jabs the power button and glares at him.

 

“Pretty sure my ears are bleeding, just FYI,” he says.  When he gets no response, he sighs heavily.  “You gonna tell me what’s up?  You’ve been on edge _all_ week.”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Clearly,” he retorts.  “Just…know you can talk to me, alright?”

 

“I’m fi-”

 

“Do me a favor and don’t lie to me.  We’ve been friends for long enough that I know you’re not fine.  You don’t wanna talk about it, I won’t make you.  But I’m worried and-”

 

“Get out.”

 

“What?

 

Derek points to the door for emphasis.  “Get out.”  The kid’s mouth thins into a tight line and he shakes his head before doing as ordered.  The car rocks with the force of the door slam.  Derek doesn’t wait to watch him go in safely.  He revs the engine and peels down the road, ramping up the volume on the stereo to full blast.

 

Pressing down harder on the accelerator, he soars through the gritty streets of downtown Beacon Hills.  His heart is pounding, flooding his body with adrenaline, as he pushes the car faster.  Just like every night after a fight, he speeds through the streets and skids around corners.  This was the one good thing about living in a small town.  Everyone else – even the people living in this shit-hole piece of it – have turned down for the night.  There were only a few other cars on the road and they avoided him just like they avoided each other.  He was no one special or interesting in this car, driving through the darkness.  There was no one sending him pitying looks, no one offering words of comfort, no one bothering him when all he wanted was to be left alone.

 

Then again, people had stopped trying awhile back.  Most people in town knew his story, though no one knew the true details.  They didn’t know how involved he was with her, didn’t know how he and his sisters suffered afterward, didn’t know how he did everything he could to protect them in the aftermath.  No one knows of the horrible things he’s done – before and after the fire.

 

No one – save for one person – will ever know.  But he lost that one person four years ago when some judge decided he wasn’t fit to take care of her.  Like that guy even knew anything about him except the number on his file.  So she was gone – Cora, his baby sister, lost in the system somewhere.  He was the only one left.  Maybe it’s better that way.  This way no one will suffer if he just…disappears one day.

 

A horn blares just before he’s slammed into the deployed airbag, the seat belt nearly choking him to death.  Blood gushes from his nose for the second time that night, making him groan in both pain and irritation.

 

He must have lost time because the next time he blinks, a paramedic is leaning into the car, poking and prodding at him.  It keeps happening – his eyes only giving him blurred images and his brain only deciphering half of them.

As sirens start to blare, the only thing he can think of is how disappointed Laura would be to know he wrecked her car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter :)


	3. It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles struggles with inner demons as he tries to escape the cornfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waning: Violent Thoughts

The rasping sound of his own breath is the only thing that makes him eventually slow down.  His throat is burning from the freezing air whistling into his lungs.  He has no idea how long he’s been running or if he’s any closer to a road.  For all he knows, he’s literally just been travelling in circles.  There’s no landmarks to tell him otherwise; just the same looking cornstalks over and over again.  They snap under his feet, the leaves whipping at his face, scratching his tender skin.

 

Light from the moon barely brightens his path before him, making him wish even more that the sun would rise.  Stumbling on a fallen stalk, he heaves a sigh and listlessly looks to the sky.  This was impossible.  It’s official - he’s lost in this godforsaken field, running in circles, in the dead of night.  He’s failed them.  They’ll be trapped in that house with Coach - forever tormented by a man that likes to lock his own son in a freezer for punishment.  Stiles’ eyes prick with the oncoming meltdown he’s been keeping in, knowing it won’t get him anywhere.  But what was the point now?  No one was going to save them, there was nowhere to run to, and he was going to die alone in a corn maze.  For the millionth time he wishes his father would come barreling back into his life, sirens blaring and ready to cuff someone.  But he was gone and Stiles didn’t know how to survive this - didn’t know-

 

His gaze catches on a dark silhouette in the distance.  He holds his breath and squints, going up on his toes to see over the corn.  Something big was only about a mile in front of him - some kind of building.  Though he has no idea what it could be, Stiles runs.  A faint hope tries to fight its way into him, but he pushes it down.  It was probably his imagination.  His streak of bad luck wouldn’t let it be an actual buildi-

 

It is.  It’s an actual building.  Some kind of barn maybe.  When he reaches it, he has to bend over to catch his breath, having gone faster than he should have.  He peers up at the gray and white shack - it’s definitely not big enough to be a barn - with its cracked roof and rotting wood.  It’s probably far enough away that Coach won’t find him until morning at least - if he’s even searching at all.  Why would he?  He has four other kids to occupy his time with.

 

It’s clear that the shack belongs to him, but he’d abandoned it long ago if the vines growing up through its cracks are anything to go by.  He carefully wedges open the door, eliciting a ridiculously loud creak from it.  He immediately shushes it and jumps inside the shack.  It wasn’t any warmer, but at least he was out of the wind for now.  He’d only had time to grab a thin jacket on his way out and the cold December air was seeping through to his skin.  Waiting a few moments for his sight to adjust, he backs himself up to the wall.  It wasn’t fear of the dark, he knew that - it was fear of what might be _in_ the dark.  Something his father always told him.  If you figure out what’s inside - which is more than likely not what you think - you won’t be afraid.

 

Stiles blinks slowly and then opens his eyes wider.  It was fairly empty, just some farming tools and empty barrels.  He roots around, opening cabinets and shoving the barrels this way and that, searching for anything useful.  With a frustrated grunt, he chucks the last one at the wall and then slumps against it.  He lets his eyes slip closed as he bangs his head against the plywood.

 

_“I don’t know what you expected to find.”_

 

The familiar voice has him going utterly still.  He feels It’s eyes on him, watching his reaction, waiting for him to acknowledge It.  Well, he’s not going to.  He’s done with It.

 

_“Awe, don’t do that, Stiles.  You know you missed me.”_

 

Sighing, he tries to shrink further into the wall, but it’s impossible to escape.  It’s moving around the room - taking a leisurely stroll on nearly silent footsteps.

 

_“I’ve gotta say I’m surprised.  I didn’t think you’d actually leave them.  I mean, I’ve been telling you to for months.  I’d be impressed if you hadn’t been a bitch about it - needing that little girl’s permission before taking off,”_ It says _._ It clucks in disappointment and then chuckles. _“So predictable you are.  If only your mother could see you-”_

 

“Stop,” Stiles snaps, eyes flashing open.

 

It grins, familiar lips twisting into an unfamiliar pose.  The amber eyes glint dangerously in the moonlight.  Stiles quickly looks away, ashamed for having let It bait him.

 

_“Like I said: predictable,”_ It sighs.   _“Hey, why do you do that, by the way?”_ It asks jovially.   _“Refer to me as an ‘it’ - a ‘thing’.  We both know I’m more than that.”_  

 

Stiles forgets himself and glances at It.  He shouldn’t have.  Tearing his eyes away is impossible as It strolls closer, pale face stopping mere inches from his own.  It braces a hand against the wall, half caging him in.  

 

_“Is it because,”_ It says, voice a low whisper.   _“Deep down... **I** am what you wanna be?  Do you worry that one day you’ll give in?  That it won’t even be a hard choice?  As much as you think you hate me, you **enjoy** the darkness I bring, don’t you?  All the suggestions, all the advice I give you...I can feel it, ya know?  Feel how much you wanna give in.  Like a few days ago, when I described how pretty - **god, so pretty** ,”_ It whispers, eyelids fluttering in pleasure.   _“That little girl’s blood would be as it slowly slipped down your knife as you gutted her...how sweet she’d sound as you released her from the pathetic life she’d been given.”_

 

The image flashes through his mind, gory and unwillingly delightful.  His heart races at the idea, even as his stomach rolls.  The horror that creeps in a moment later wins out.

 

“Stop it!” he shouts, shoving at It.

 

Blinking rapidly, he finds himself alone again.  He takes deep breaths to stave off the panic.

 

“It’s not real.  It’s just in your head,” he whispers.

 

He silently repeats that to himself as he throws himself back out into the night.  Stiles runs again - runs from the thing that’s followed him since childhood, runs from It’s words.  From the truth behind them.

 

“It’s not true, it’s not true,” he pants.  As he makes his way through the field, It whispers to him.

 

_“You’ll never make it out.  Did you really think you were strong enough for this?  You’ve failed them.  I bet he’s killed them by now.  They’re dead, Stiles, and it’s all your fault.”_

 

He runs until his chest is hurting with every breath, until his legs are cramping, until the moon disappears and the horizon turns pink, until the dirt under his feet turns to grass, the grass to asphalt.  Stiles skids to a halt, shocked and dazed at what he’s seeing.  He’s found a road, he made it out of the field.  Elation roars through and out of him.

 

“Yes!” he screams, throwing his arms up.  “Yes, yes, yes!” he continues, punching the air.

 

He stumbles around in a circle, chest heaving with deep breaths.  The ‘yes’’ soon turn into incoherent shouts, which eventually morph into full on screaming with him bent over, yelling at the pavement, yelling at _It_.  When he’s finished, he flops onto said ground, sprawling out in an exhausted heap.  He lays there, soaking in the heat from the sun.

 

_“Congratulations.  Now what, asshole?  You’re still in the middle of nowhere.”_

 

Stiles can’t hold in the giggle at the completely annoyed tone of It’s voice.

 

_“Laugh it up.  You’re still not going to save them and you know it.”_

 

His laughter slowly ebbs, fear trickling back in.  It was probably right.  He made it out, but he was still lying on the side of the road, in who-knew-where California.  It was a big state and he was never really sure where the farm was located.  Coach never let them leave the property.

 

_“Don’t be afraid, Stiles,”_ It says.  He can _hear_ the smirk.   _“You’re not alone.”_

 

Stiles grimaces, pushes himself up off the ground, and starts walking.  It’s last whisper trails after him.

 

_“I’ll never leave you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Any and all comments are welcome :)


	4. Broken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know why you’re bothering. They said it was totaled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Auditory Flashbacks, Implied Child Abuse (no flashbacks of this in this chapter)

“You’re an idiot,” Danny says for the third time.  He’s pacing back and forth, arms crossed and tension filled.

 

“It’s really not that bad.”

 

“Are you serious?  Have you looked in a mirror?”

 

Derek flinches, but hides it by painfully getting to his feet.  He honestly can’t remember the last time he looked in a mirror - seen his ashen reflection.  Probably before...well, before everything.

 

“Doctor said I’m fi-”

 

“ _Really?_ Did you think I wasn’t gonna ask?  I know they want you to stay for observations.  And Derek...I mean, what…,” he says, trailing off.

 

His eyes flick to the pictures still hanging on the x-ray machines.  Apparently he’d cracked a rib in the wreck and yes, his hand was broken from last night’s fight.  But he knew it wasn’t the fresh breaks his friend’s eyes kept landing on.  It was the multiple only-a-year-old healed breaks on both x-rays that he was focusing on; which was all the doctor had focused on for the last ten minutes he was here.  The guy only dropped it once Derek lied and told him it was from another accident.  He got a judgmental and half-disbelieving glare with a muttered ‘be more careful’.

 

Derek grabs his jacket - which thankfully hadn’t been ruined in the wreck - and slips it over his shoulders, failing to hold in the pained gasp the move elicits.  He stills, breath halting as familiar agony shoots through his chest.  When it settles back to a manageable ache, he lets out a slow breath and turns to leave.  His friend - who he’d completely forgotten was in the room - is staring at him, eyes narrowed and mouth pinched in worry.  Rolling his eyes, he shoves past him and into the hall.

 

“Derek,” Danny snaps.

 

Ignoring him, he makes his way to the front desk, reaches for the clipboard...and completely forgets his hand is in a cast, damn it.  Sighing heavily, he scribbles his name and the time down with his left hand.  It doesn’t come out totally awful, seeing as how much practice he’s had.  Frustrated - at himself, his life, the universe - he chucks the pen at the desk and then stomps his way out the - _goddamn it, open already_ \- clearly defective automatic doors.

 

“You can’t just leave,” Danny whispers harshly, chasing after him.  

 

Seeing the kid’s piece-of-crap car waiting by the curb, he slides into the passenger’s seat.  He successfully remains quiet this time when his broken rib flares up.  Not only did he _not_ want to stay in the hospital, he wanted to avoid the cops for as long as possible.  He’d had enough of doctors and officers in his life.  Besides, the wreck was most _definitely_ his fault, seeing as how he sped through the damn red light in a fit of rage.  He’s royally screwed, basically.

 

Danny jumps behind the wheel and simply stares - or glares, rather - at him.

 

“Bring me to my car,” he demands.  Danny’s eyes narrow even further, but he eventually shoves the car into drive and speeds down the road.

 

“I don’t know why you’re bothering.  They said it was totaled.”

 

Derek stares out the window, not willing to comment.  It wasn’t totaled until he declared it dead and he would never do that because Laura would kill him - _if she was actually here that is_.

 

“Are we almost there?” he barks.

 

“I don’t know why the fuck I’m friends with you,” Danny grumbles and then steps on the gas.

 

Derek doesn’t know either.  He’s done everything to push the kid away, but he just keeps hanging around.  His temper cools a bit and the urge to apologize surfaces.  Derek clamps down on it, not wanting to break his promise to himself.  He’d never apologize to anyone ever again.  Not after hearing the words spew from his mouth almost every day for five years.

 

The car coming to a sudden halt pulls him out of his head.  Sand and dirt billow around in the wind as they step out.  Derek marches through the yard, front door, and up to the desk.

 

“I’m looking for a black Camaro.  It would have been brought in about 4 hours ago.”  The startled receptionist blinks owlishly at him before gently placing her pen down.

 

“What?” she asks.  Derek sighs sharply and then cringes.

 

“My car is a black Camaro,” he says slowly.  “I would like to see it.”

 

He holds back a please as it sticks in his throat along with Danny’s deserved apology.  The woman gapes for a moment and then nods quickly.

 

“Let me check my computer,” she mumbles.

 

Pushing her glasses up, her delicate fingers click clack away on the keyboard.  The sound grates on his nerves and he drums his fingers on the desk.  After what seems like hours, he sighs and leans further over the desk.

 

“How long is this going to take?”

 

“Just a few minutes, sir,” she says.

 

Her eyes flicker between him and the screen nervously.  He doesn’t care.  He just wants his goddamn car.  True to her word, she makes a little ‘aha’ sound and turns to him.

 

“Yes, there was a black Camaro brought in early this morning.  I just need to see a photo ID and you can-”

 

“ID?  My ID is in the _car_ ,” he snaps.  She gapes yet again, flustered by his temper.  “This is ridiculous.  I just want to see my damn car.  Why are you making this so difficult?”

 

“Sir, it’s company policy.  I can’t let you in the yard or release the car without some kind of ident-”

 

“I want to see a fucking manager.  Now,” he says.  The woman splutters for a moment and then looks at her watch.

 

“I’m sorry, but the manager won’t be in for another hour.  I could-”

 

“ _Seriously?”_ he yells and then shoves away from the desk with an angry shout.

 

Danny comes rushing up, pats him on the shoulder, and then shoves him further away.  He goes more than willingly just to get the hands off of him.

 

“I am _so_ sorry about him.  Just been one of those nights, ya know?  Now, what were you going to say?  What could you do?” he asks politely.

 

She takes a small, stuttering breath, clearly trying to let go of the panic.  Derek hates her already.  She’s weak and pathetic, being afraid of him just for yelling at her.  He hates her and he hates this goddamn day.

 

“I could call my manager and see if she’ll come in early,” she offers.  Danny bites his lip, looks to the clock, and then back.

 

“You know what, there’s no need.  We’ll come back in an hour.  No reason to wake her up early for this.”

 

“What?!” Derek shouts.

 

The woman jumps, making him roll his eyes.  She needs to be tougher.  Life sucks, people are dicks - she’s old enough to know that by now.  Danny sighs and turns to him, a patient un-amused smile on his face.

 

“It’s fine.  We’ll get some breakfast and-”

 

“I don’t want breakfast, I want my fucking car.”

 

“And then come back when we’re finished,” Danny yells over him, eyes closing in annoyance.

 

The smile has completely fallen, replaced with an uneasy frown.  Derek holds back the scream he wants to let loose, knowing it would only further complicate the situation.  The anger sits heavy on his chest, causing the ache to flare into sharp pain again.

 

“Fine,” he grits out.  He looks to the receptionist.  “ _One_ hour,” he says, pointing for emphasis.

 

She nods shakily, her fingers tangled together.  He stares her down for a minute, until Danny sighs and starts pushing him toward the door.  Derek immediately bats his hands away, willfully leaving the building.  His friend is persistent, keeping a supposedly calming hand on his back.

 

“Stop it,” he grumbles.  The words almost have him flinching, but he feels he’s done enough of that this morning.

 

“Derek, I just-”

 

“I don’t care what you ‘just’, Danny,” he snaps.  He turns and shoves the kid off.  “Get your hands off me.”

 

The teen quickly raises his hands in surrender, nodding in understanding - not fear, but understanding.  As if he’s apologizing.  Derek scoffs and gets back in the car.  The ride is silent as Danny drives to the closest diner - some place called ‘Zen City’.

 

It’s very calm inside - soft lighting, cozy booths, and a buffet of breakfast foods.  Derek hates it on sight.

 

There’s only one other person, seeing as how it’s 3 in the morning.  The host greets them and shows them to an empty booth.

 

“Can I get you gentleman some drinks?” she asks.

 

“Yes, I’ll take a coffee, please,” Danny says.  His charming smile has her returning one of her own and Derek sighs.

 

“And for you?”

 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he grumbles.

 

Her smile falters for a moment and she looks back to Danny, unsure.  His friend glares at him, but to no avail.

 

“He’ll have an orange juice, thanks,” Danny says.  Derek tenses and if looks could kill, his friend would be dead right now - flayed alive and bleeding all over this stupid linoleum floor.

 

“Okay,” the girl mutters and scurries away.  Totally nonplussed, Danny hums to himself before getting up.

 

“Come on.  Let’s fill our plates.”

 

“I said I don’t want breakfast.  I’m not hungry.”

 

The kid pauses and then leans against the table, hands braced on the top, as he stares down at him.

 

“You are going to eat something and you are going to lose the fucking attitude,” he says lowly.  Instinctively leaning away, his fists clench as the tone sets off alarm bells.

 

The kid doesn’t lessen his stare until Derek quickly darts his eyes to the table.  Danny sighs and hangs his head, the fight in him deflating.

 

“I’m trying to be your _friend_.  You do understand that, right?” he asks quietly.

 

Derek nods simply to get him to back off.  It’s ridiculous that he’s afraid of a 16 year old boy.  He hates himself for it.  His friend sighs even heavier and plops down into Derek’s side of the booth, making him quickly back as far away as possible.  He’s stopped when his shoulders hit the wooden divider separating them from the other booth.

 

“I’m sorry, okay?  I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“You didn’t,” Derek snaps.

 

“Right,” he replies.  “Still, I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have lost my temper, though really you were being a dick.  But I’m trying to apologize and - damn it, Derek, will you look at me?” he asks, voice rising.  He immediately flicks his gaze up, making eye contact before darting away again.  “Sorry...again.  Are we good now?”

 

Derek nods, but Danny still doesn’t leave.

 

“It’s fine.  Just go get us some breakfast,” he grumbles.

 

The kid mutters an ‘okay’ and shuffles off to fetch food.  Derek focuses on relaxing one muscle at a time and getting his heart to stop racing.

 

_Look at me, sweetie.  I wanna see your eyes when I fuck you._

 

_You didn’t finish your dinner.  Are you **trying** to be disrespectful?  You know how I feel about that._

 

Derek shakes his head to dislodge the voices.  It’s no use really.  They’re always there, always with him.  He doesn’t think he’ll ever be rid of them.

 

A large plate of food is placed in front of him, making his already nauseous stomach roll.

 

“I’m really not hungry,” he murmurs.

 

_I don’t care if you’re hungry or not.  Do you want me to get the lighter?  Is that what you want?_

 

“It’s fine, man.  Eat whatever you can,” Danny says, digging into his own meal.

 

He looks up, the reply making the voice a bit quieter in his head.  Grunting a response, he picks up his fork and eats some of the eggs.  The minute they hit his stomach, he’s scarfing down the rest of it, the nausea fading as he fills up.  He honestly can’t remember the last time he had a whole meal, let alone a hot one.  Once they’re done, Danny’s smile returns as he pays the bill.

 

“See?  It’s been an hour already and I bet you didn’t even notice.”

 

Derek scowls, refusing to acknowledge how right he is.  The kid just nods happily as if he heard the unspoken words anyway.  The drive back is calmer, except for Derek’s impatient fidgeting.  He wastes no time in storming back into the office, Danny chasing after him yet again.

 

The young woman at the desk flicks her eyes to them and then quickly looks back to the previous customer.

 

“So if you just sign here and initial here, I’ll give you the keys and you’ll be on your way,” she says.  The man does as asked and Derek crosses his arms, patience officially running low once again.

 

“Derek, no yelling this time, right?” Danny whispers.  No answer.  “And you’re gonna apologize to the very nice lady, right?”  At the glare he receives, the kid shrinks back, hands up.  “Or not,” he mumbles.  The customer before him finally leaves and Derek approaches the desk.   _No yelling, I can do that._

 

“Hello,” he says calmly.  She nods tentatively.  “May I see my car now?”

 

The ringing of her phone interrupts them.  She nervously holds up a finger and answers it.  Derek huffs, aggravating his rib.  He ignores it, getting used to the familiar ache again.

 

“Deb’s Junkyard, how may I help you?” she asks into the receiver.

 

Derek counts to ten, listening to her passively agree with the customer on the phone, before reaching over and jabbing the hang-up button.  Her call disconnects and she stutters to a stop, gaping at him.

 

“Excuse me, but I am a real-live customer standing right in front of you.  I highly doubt it’s company policy to ignore me for a phone call.”   _I’m not yelling.  Everything is fine._

 

The blonde nods and quickly hangs up the phone once he removes his finger.

 

“Do you still want to speak with the manager?” she asks.

 

“Depends.  Do I still need ID to retrieve my own fucking car?”

 

“Yes,” she says quietly.

 

“Then yes, I’d like to speak to the manager.”

 

She hastily pushes a button on the phone, a beep following it.

 

“Deb, a customer would like to speak with you,” she says.

 

The woman taps her ridiculously painted nails on the desk as she waits.  When Derek sighs, she quickly pushes the button again.

 

“Right _now_ , Deb.”

 

A door in the back squeaks open and a tall brunette strides down the hall.  She hands some papers to the receptionist and then turns to them with a wide smile.

 

“Gentlemen, how may I-”

 

“I would like to see my car,” he says, cutting her off.  A perfectly sculpted brow ticks in surprise, but she otherwise doesn’t react to his attitude.

 

“Alright.  Why don’t you tell me which one it is?”

 

“Black Camaro,” he grunts.

 

“Yes, I believe I saw that in my lot.  If you wouldn’t mind showing some-”

 

“ID, yeah, I know.  It’s in the car.”

 

She pauses, smile tightening, but she doesn’t argue back.  “That’s fine.  I’ll have my mechanic retrieve it and once we prove the car is yours, I’ll take you to see it.  How does that sound?”

 

“That sounds-”

 

“Fine,” Danny cuts in.  “That sounds totally fine.  Take your time.”  The brunette nods to him and then leaves to supposedly speak with the mechanic.  “Derek?  How ‘bout we just have a seat over here, yeah?”

 

“I wasn’t yelling,” he protests unprompted.

 

“Didn’t say you were,” he sighs.  “Let’s just sit.  I’m sure it won’t take long.”

 

Grudgingly following him, they sit on the chairs by the window, the receptionist eyeing him warily.

 

“You kinda look like you wanna fuck her,” Danny mutters as he flips through a magazine.

 

“I don’t want to fuck her,” he replies, keeping a lid on his temper.

 

No, he didn’t want to fuck the pathetically timid receptionist.  All he wanted was to check the damage of his car, go home, and fall into a drunken sleep.

 

“You sure?  ‘Cause the last time a guy glared at me that hard I ended up on my knees in the club bath-”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Just saying.”

 

“Well don’t.”

 

Danny sighs, shaking his head.  “I mean, I really think it’d help with this whole pent-up anger thing you got goin’-”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Danny,” he all but yells.

 

The blonde jumps in her chair, but Danny just rolls his eyes.  Derek’s leg starts bouncing and he looks to the clock.

 

“God, how long is this gonna fucking take?”

 

“It’s literally been five minutes,” Danny mumbles.

 

“Exactly,” he retorts.

 

He gets up, ignoring Danny’s muttered ‘here we go again’, and approaches the desk.  Before he can start yelling, the brunette comes back with his wallet in hand.

 

“Alright, Mr. Hale, everything seems to check out.  You may come see your car now.  Though I have to warn you, I don’t think there’s anything we can do to fix-”

 

“I’ll decide if it can be fixed or not.  Just show me,” he snaps.

 

She scowls, but motions for him to follow her out back.  She leads him to a large junkyard, around towering car piles, and heaps of scrap metal before finally revealing the Camaro.  Danny whistles and then grimaces.

 

Derek frowns at the damage he sees.  It really did get plowed in the wreck.  The driver’s side is completely smashed in, the door missing, and the roof caved in.  The sight has his heart racing and palms sweating.

 

_If anything ever happens-_

 

_Don’t, Laura._

 

_Shut up.  If anything ever happens to me, you **better** take care of my baby.  You hear me?  That’s the only thing I want._

 

In the background he can hear his friend talking with the woman, asking about possible repairs.  He doesn’t need to hear it.  He already knows.

 

“Derek?” Danny calls quietly.

 

“I promised her I’d take care of it,” he says, voice cracking despite himself.

 

“Promised who?”

 

Taking a breath, he clears his throat and looks away from the wreckage.

 

“No one.  It doesn’t matter.”  He turns around, finding his friend and the woman staring at him.  “How much for the tow?”

 

“I’ll do the calculations and let you know,” she replies.

 

She glances between him and the car before slowly walking back into the building.  He nods and turns back again.  It’s still a heap of metal.  He didn’t imagine it.  He really wrecked his sister’s car - the one promise he hadn’t broken to her.

 

“Come on, man.  Let’s go inside,” Danny says gently.

 

He reaches out, but quickly retracts his hand when Derek cringes.  Back in the office, he finds the brunette there, laying out paperwork for him to sign.

 

“It’s one hundred for the tow and fifty for the estimate,” she says.

 

The blonde hands him a pen.  Sighing, he digs the cash out of his wallet, hands it over, and signs his name messily with his left hand.

 

“Your keys, Mr. Hale,” she says.

 

He glares at her, but calmly takes the offering.  It only had the keys for the Camaro, his apartment, and his locker at The Den.

 

“Have a nice day, gentlemen,” she calls as they walk out.  Derek wants to punch something.

 

It’s quiet on the ride home, neither of them having anything to say.  When they pull onto Crystal Avenue - Danny swerving to avoid a drunk homeless man in the road - he sighs at the grime covering the buildings and the junkies on every corner.  Once they park, his friend turns to him, somber frown in place.

 

“I’m sorry about your car, man.  I don’t mind driving you around until you get a new one.”

 

Derek wants to scoff, but doesn’t.  A new one.  Right.  Like he can afford that.

 

“What’re you gonna do about your matches, by the way?  You can’t fight in your condition.”

 

“I’ll figure something out.”

 

“You’re _not_ going to still fight, are you?” he asks worriedly.  Derek shrugs, making the kid groan.  “You’re an idiot.  I’ve said that, right?  You’re aware?”

 

“Yes, Danny, I’m fully aware,” he sighs before climbing out of the car.

 

“Call me if you’re about to do something stupid!” he yells.

 

Derek slams the door in response.  He trudges up the cracked cement stairs, struggles with the damaged front door, and cringes at the odor of cat piss as he makes his way down the front hall.  Derek climbs the first two flights and then groans at who’s standing at the base of the third.

 

“I don’t have any money, Daryl,” he grumbles.  The guy fidgets and absently scratches his arm, his eyes and fingers twitching as he follows Derek up the stairs.

 

“Are you sure, man?  ‘Cause I could really use some help.  It’s been a real bad day, ya know?  I lost my girl, and my moms - she ain’t doin’ too well no more.  I gotta pay her medical bills, ya know?  I’m jus’ sayin’, even a few dollars, man.”

 

“I said no.  Stop following me.”

 

“Ya know, you’re a real prick, man. I’ve seen that fancy car you dri-”

 

Derek’s vision blanks and when he focuses again, Daryl is cradling a bleeding nose and cursing him all to hell.

 

“Motherfucker.  What the fuck?” he shrieks.

 

Derek is surprised when the usually cowardly man swings back.  He ducks, lands a punch to the guy’s stomach and then a knee to the face.  Daryl moans, sprawling out on the landing.  Derek watches him for further retaliation and when there doesn’t seem to be any, he straightens his jacket and turns.

 

His face and head explode with agony, making him fall to the ground.  The ringing in his head tells him he was hit with something heavy and hard - very hard.  He groans, holding his head, and rolling to see who the fuck hit him.

 

“That’s my fucking boyfriend, bitch,” a stringy-haired brunette sneers.

 

She’s got a shovel of all things in her tight grip and every time he moves, she raised it - ready to strike again.  Derek lays very still mostly to avoid getting hit, but also to stop the blooming pain coursing across his chest, and striking between his temples.

 

“He just wanted a few dollars, that’s all,” she says.

 

The woman then props the shovel against the wall and then rummages through his pockets.  He would punch her too if his head wasn’t still spinning.  Her mouth stretches into a wide grin, showing her rotting teeth, as she plucks the remaining money from his wallet.

 

“You know, you could’ve avoided the shovel to the face if you’d just handed this over, dumbass,” she says.

 

She snorts wetly, stands, and then - to add a little extra to this shit day - kicks him in the side.  He cries out and curls into a ball, struggling to breathe.

 

The woman rouses her boyfriend with gently cooing noises and they make their way back down the stairs.

 

Derek thinks back to the last time he was lying on a floor, wheezing around a cracked rib.  He’s pretty sure he begged God to just let him die back then and it isn’t any different now.  The only difference about this is that he’s a year older and not trapped in a house with someone he once called family.  That’s the only thing that finally makes him get up and crawl his way up the two remaining flights - the fact that his apartment will be blissfully empty.  He grabs the doorknob that leads to his floor and hauls himself to his feet.  Every breath feels like nails digging into his side and every movement has something inside him splintering apart.

 

Finally reaching his door is a small blessing.  He unlocks it and pushes it passed the too rough-too high carpet.  He would slam it closed, but it sticks on said carpet.  Derek pushes it shut and then slowly makes his way to the fridge.  He grabs a bag of frozen peas - which he’s shocked he actually had - and a beer before lowering himself onto his ratty couch.  He lifts up his shirt and hisses at the bruises on his skin.  His stomach is covered from the fight, but it’s his side with it’s black-purple hue that makes him bite his lip in pain and worry.  It’s been a long time since he’s had one like that.

 

Derek places the peas on the worst of it, grimacing at the shock.  He sinks more fully into the couch and twists off the cap, taking a long swig of his beer.  There was no television to watch because he couldn’t afford to pay his cable bill.  He’s surprised to find the electricity still on, the ceiling fan whirling lazily above him.  The monotony of it lulls him into a sense of half-sleep, eyes only half closed as he drifts.

 

Loud banging on his door jars him awake.  Cursing, he places his now warm beer on the crate by his feet, the dripping bag of peas on the floor, and slowly gets to his feet.  His side isn’t screaming anymore, having gone pleasantly numb from the cold.  He’s regretting not having put something on his face as well.  Chances are it’s just as bruised as his side.

 

Opening the door, he frowns at who he finds.  If those meth heads called the cops on him, he may just die of laughter.

 

“Sheriff Haigh,” Derek grumbles, nodding to him.

 

“Derek,” the man says with a smirk.  “Always a pleasure.”

 

“You can’t arrest me,” he says stubbornly.  He didn’t fucking do anything this time, this was bullshit.

 

Haigh ticks a brow at him.  “Is there a reason I should be arresting you?  You’ve been awfully quiet the last few weeks.  Figured you were taking a break,” he says with a chuckle.

 

Derek rolls his eyes, not wanting to comment.

 

“Anyway, no, I’m not arresting you this time,” he says.  He then takes a stack of rolled up papers out of his jacket.  “This is for you.  You’ve been served,” he says cheerfully.

 

He snatches up the papers, unfolds them, and scans over the words.

 

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” he groans.

 

“Nope.  You have five days to respond.  Have a nice day, kid,” he says.

 

Derek forces his breathing under control and does his damndest to slam the fucking door this time.  It, _predictably_ , doesn’t work.  It gets caught on the carpet, making him shove all his weight against it to close it.  When it’s done, he leans his head on it and closes his eyes.  Unbelievable.

 

Shaking his head, he rips the door back open and marches down the hall.  He wasn’t gonna just take this.  It was complete bullshit.  Derek flies down the four flights of stairs and down the main hall.  When he gets to the door he’s looking for, he knocks loudly and repeatedly.  Grumbling can be heard from outside and a moment later, the door swings open.  The man’s hair is sticking up at all angles, glasses askew on his face, and pants still being buttoned.

 

“What, Hale?!  What is so goddamned impor-”

 

“Evicted?!” Derek shouts, holding up the papers.  Greg sighed, shoulders slumping.

 

“Look, kid, I didn’t wanna do this, but yes, I _have_ to evict you.  You’re one of my least sleazy tenants, but Derek, you haven’t paid rent in over _four months_ ,” he says.  “ _Four_ ,” he repeats, holding up four fingers for emphasis.

 

“But-”

 

“No, no more ‘but’s’.  I gave you multiple warnings about this.  I told you last month that if you didn’t pay your back-rent, I’d be forced to kick you out.”

 

“What?  When was that?  I don’t remember you telling me that.”

 

Greg sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Halloween.  You’d just gotten home from a bender - don’t look at me like that, you reeked of booze, kid, I ain’t stupid - and I sat you down in the lobby and explained it all very carefully.  You puked on my shoes, by the way,” he says, eyes narrowed.  “Then just to make sure you didn’t forget, I tacked a note up on your fridge.  Which you said you read the next day.  So don’t act all shocked to me.”

 

Derek frowns, gaze trailing up as he thinks about it.  Halloween...he thinks that might’ve been the day after that Poly Match - the first Poly he’d ever done.  It was rough, taking on two guys at once in the cage.  He’d won, but he was out of commission for four weeks with a fractured foot and multiple strained muscles.  He spent that entire time so wasted he barely remembers it.  The only thing that pulled him out of it was a doctor clearing him and the owner of The Den telling him he was free to sign up for fights again.  He’d fought every night for two straight weeks and only stopped when a female fighter got a little too personal in the cage.  He rarely signed up to fight the women - not because of some moral ‘men aren’t supposed to hit girls’ or because ‘they’re not strong enough’.  It’s the opposite really.  They tended to fight dirty, grabbing for the most delicate parts of him, which was a good way for him to get distracted and lose.  Of course, there were times a woman would specifically challenge him just for the glory it would bring, and there was no choice but to fight.  Someone challenges you and you don’t back down - it’s a rule set by the owner.

 

Focusing back on the present, he shakes his head.

 

“I vaguely remember that,” he mumbles.  He won’t admit out loud that he’s ashamed, but he is.

 

“Vaguely,” Greg says with a nod.  He hums in condescending agreement, making Derek frown deeper.

 

“Look, just…,” Derek says, trailing off as he thinks.  “Just give me a few more days.  I’ll have enough by Saturday to pay all the back rent plus this month.”  The man hesitates, but eventually shakes his head with a heavy sigh.

 

“I’m sorry, kid, but I just can’t afford it.  You tell me every month that you’ll have it by such and such a time, but you never do,” he says.  Before closing the door, he glances back with a truly sad frown and adds, “Whatever mess you’re in...well, I really wish I could help, kid, but I just can’t.  Sorry.”

 

With that he shuts the door and slides the deadbolt into place.  Derek stands frozen for a moment, before dropping his arms listlessly from the doorway.  It was most likely a lie anyway, that he’ll have the money.  He’d have to win every fight and survive Saturday’s match for it to be true.  But he figured he’d give it a shot.  Either he won and paid the rent, or his opponent killed him and he didn’t have to worry about it anymore.  At this point he’s hoping for that outcome.

 

Back inside his apartment, he throws the papers on the counter and trudges back to the couch.  He’s too exhausted to pull out the bed, so he just flops onto the cushions, groaning as he forgets his rib.  Derek lies there, staring at the wall - watching the shadows drift lazily across the room as the sun shifts in the sky.  He should really get up and eat something; maybe the frozen peas that are still on the floor, but he can’t drum up the desire.  Even now the giant breakfast he ate is rolling uneasily through his stomach.  He’s not used to eating so much in one sitting anymore.

 

Sudden crushing despair falls down on him, the ache in his chest stemming from more than the rib this time.  He thinks back on breakfast and hides his face in the cushion.

 

_Der, I’m hungry._

 

_I know._

 

_What do I do?  He won’t give me any food._

 

_I’ll fix it, Cor, I promise._

 

The soft cries of his little sister as her stomach growls rush through his head.  He tried, he really did.  Every night he crept up to her room to sneak bread through the door and every morning he tried to throw an apple through her window.  But _he’d_ always find out, always take it away, or make Derek eat it in front of his starving sister.  Just another promise in a long list of them that Derek couldn’t keep.

 

Grunting, he pushes himself up and marches into the kitchen, searching through his mostly empty cupboards.  His hand easily finds the bottle, his fingers almost slipping on the cool glass.  He doesn’t bother with a cup - isn’t even sure he has one.  Uncapping it, Derek takes a long pull, the familiar burn easing its way down his throat and warming his chest.  He chokes a bit, but keeps it - along with a quarter of the bottle - down.

 

_Der, I’m hungry._

 

“Fuck,” he breathes.  He bangs his head against the fridge repeatedly until the voice stops.  “She’s fine now.  She’s fine,” he says.

 

It’s something he tells himself often.  That his little sister is fine now, wherever she is.  That she’s better off without him - that the judge was right a year ago.  Derek couldn’t have taken care of her, could barely take care of himself.  Cora was safe in some group or foster home, however those things worked.  She was in a safe place, away from the man that hurt her for years and away from her fucked up brother.  She hadn’t wanted to leave him, but he insisted the judge was right.  Though he goes back and forth with this decision - often regretting it and thinking he should have fought harder.  But he didn’t have a steady job, he drank too much, he obviously couldn’t pay for a shitty studio apartment.  She needed a stable environment, something he could never provide.

 

He sits back down on the couch, nursing his bottle as he resumes staring at the wall.  He’ll drink most of it and then pick up some food on the way to The Den.

 

_Der, I’m hungry._

 

Sighing, he speaks to the disembodied voice of his lost sister.  “I know, Cor.  I’m so-” The apology once again gets lodged in his throat.  He can’t even say he’s sorry to his missing little sister.  He’s pathetic.

 

The vodka disappears quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Any and all comments are welcome :)


	5. A Matter of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terror rushes through him, but his reflection simply smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violent Thoughts

_“Oh, look, there goes another one.”_

 

Stiles groans, his arm flopping back down to his side.  Apparently people just didn’t give a fuck, or they thought he was an axe murderer or something.

 

_“You could be, ya know.  An axe murderer, I mean.  If you’d just let me out to play every once in a whi-”_

 

“Could you not?” Stiles grumbles.

 

He’s been walking down the same road for who-knew-how-long and at least a dozen cars drove by without stopping.  His feet had blisters that were most probably bleeding into his socks and he was simultaneously sweating and freezing.  The wind had picked up an hour ago, going straight through his jacket once again.

 

He pulls the material closer and tucks his arms in as close as possible.  When he hears the sound of another engine, he resolutely sticks his arm out again, thumb up.  Someone had to stop eventually, he figures.  Not everyone in whatever-the-fuck town this was could be paranoid and untrusting.

 

_“They should be.  You might just snap and kill them all.  Who knows?”_

 

Stiles rolls his eyes.  It was getting desperate.  That sounded ridiculous even to his own ears.  Why the fuck would he kill some stran-

 

_“Because it’d be fun.  Just take out your pocket knife, reach over, and plunge it into their neck.  Watch as they bleed all over the steering wheel as the car - with you in it - drives right off a cliff…”_

 

A shiver passes through him at the words.  Not the description of some poor person’s demise, but the fact that It had included his own death in the scenario this time.  It’s never done that before - thought of the idea of Stiles killing himself.

 

_“I figured I’d try it.  You don’t listen to anything else I say, so what good are you?  You might as well get it over with.”_

 

The beep of a horn startles him out of the strange daze and he waves at the car, flagging it down.  It’s a black VW Bug, the sun glinting off the paint job making him squint.  He crosses the street as the driver rolls down their window.  Stiles refuses to admit that his jaw drops a bit and his heart gives a funny little skip when he lays eyes on the girl behind the wheel.

 

Her red - no, strawberry blonde? - hair falls gracefully around her shoulders in delicate curls.  She’s got on a tight royal blue shirt that highlights the forest green hue of her irises; and her lips...well, Stiles could write poetry about those lips.  And he hates poetry.

 

“Are you getting in or not?” she asks, brow ticking in annoyance.  Stiles splutters at the directness.

 

“What she means is, would you like a ride?” another girl asks from the passenger’s seat.

 

She is also very beautiful - all luscious dark waves, soft brown eyes, and dimples.  Before he can respond, the backseat window rolls down as well, a floppy haired boy sticking his head out.  He squints at the bright sun and gives a nervous smile.

 

“You don’t have an axe, do you?  Because my friend thinks you might be a serial killer,” he says, dopey grin widening.  Stiles snorts, surprised by the question.

 

“Uh, no, I don’t have an axe,” he replies, nodding seriously.  

 

_“No, but you do have a pocket knife.”_ Stiles flinches, but doesn’t respond to It.

 

The kid chuckles, throws his door open, and scoots over to make room.  Once inside, he finds another boy in the back - a young blonde with bright blue eyes.  He gives a shy smile and Stiles nods in return.  The gorgeous girl steps on the gas, pulling back onto the road.

 

“Where you heading?” she asks.

 

“The closest police station,” he says.  The teens share nervous and curious glances, but he doesn’t elaborate.

 

“Did you just come from that corn field?” the brunette asks, brows furrowed.

 

“Yeah,” he says.  Stiles avoids her suspicious gaze by staring out the window - at the goddamn cornfield that apparently goes on for miles and miles.  “What town is this?” he asks.  More questioning frowns.

 

“Beacon Hills,” the boy next to him says.

 

Stiles has never heard of it.  By looking at the landscape and seeing what’s an obvious suburbia up ahead, he’s guessing it’s a really small town.  That’ll be good at least - somewhat familiar.  He grew up in a small town too.

 

“Where in California are we?”

 

“Beacon County, of course,” the brunette says.  Stiles nods, though he has no idea where the fuck that is.

 

“Where are you from?” the blonde guy asks.

 

He opens his mouth, only to close it again.  Stiles isn’t really sure how to answer that.  He knows where he grew up obviously, but he’s been on the farm for so long - and he isn’t even sure how many months or even years - that the first thing to pop into his head as an answer _is_ The Farm.

 

_“That’s fucked up.”_

 

Stiles almost shushes It out loud before remembering the others can’t hear It.  Shaking his head, he refocuses and just decides on the simplest answer.

 

“Byron,” he says.  “Technically,” he adds in a mumble.  The two boys and the brunette stare at him, uncomprehending.

 

“It’s in Contra Costa.  The next county over,” the strawberry-blonde explains.

 

Stiles raises a brow, surprised.  Her friends gape, equally as shocked apparently.

 

“What?” she asks innocently.  “I saw it in the GPS once,” she says with a shrug.

 

“O-kay,” the brunette says slowly, a confused smile coming to her face.

 

“So, why the police station?” the blonde bursts, as if he’s been dying to ask.

 

Stiles fidgets, fingers pulling the fabric of his jacket further over his arms, unconsciously hiding the evidence of what he’s been through.

 

“Long story,” he mutters.

 

“Why were you in the field, dude?” the other boy asks.

 

“I...uh...got lost,” he says.  A thought occurs to him and his curiosity gets the better of him.  “Hey, what’s todays date?”

 

More frowns, but he doesn’t really care.

 

“December 13th, 2011,” the girl driving says.

 

Stiles meets her too perceptive gaze in the mirror and does his best to hide the tremor that racks through him.   _December 13th._ He’d been trapped on that farm for six months.  It seemed like so much longer.  Stiles had thought a year or two at least had passed.  He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not.  If anything, it’s more of a numb kind of shock.

 

“I need to stop for gas, but the station is only about ten minutes down the road.  You okay to wait?” she asks.

 

“No problem,” he mutters.

 

He figures a few more minutes isn’t going to make much of a difference.  They pull into a small gas station and wait as she fills the tank.  Stiles gets a small glimpse of her creamy thighs, just below her mini skirt, and struggles to pull his eyes away.

 

_“Look how perfect she is.  Don’t you just wanna trace your blade across that milky skin?”_

 

Stiles sighs sharply and quickly averts his gaze.  No, he did _not_ want to hurt the girl.  That was fucked up.   _It_ was fucked up for thinking that.

 

_“Don’t you mean **we’re** fucked up, Stiles?”_

 

“So, you guys from here?” he asks, shoving the voice away.

 

“Sort of.  Only me and Lydia actually grew up here, though.  She’s the one driving.  I’m Scott, by the way,” the kid says.  “This is Allison and Liam,” he says, pointing in turn.

 

“Stiles,” he says with a nod.

 

He gets the predictable frowns of confusion, but the two boys just shrug and accept it.  The strawberry-blonde - Lydia, apparently - climbs back in and clicks her seat belt into place.

 

“Now to the station for Stiles,” Scott crows.  “Unless you wanna have lunch with us?”

 

“Oh, uh, thank you, but no,” he stutters.  The rumble of his traitorous stomach fills the silence.

 

“You sure about that?” Scott asks, amused.

 

“Wait, what’s a Stiles?”

 

The brunette - Allison - snorts, but quickly tries to mask it with a cough.

 

“It’s him.  He’s Stiles,” Scott says, pointing.  Lydia nods, but still looks like she’s thinking judgmental thoughts if the pinch to her mouth is anything to go by.

 

“And yes, I’m sure,” Stiles says

 

He tries to put the thought of an actual meal out of his mind, knowing he doesn’t have the time for it.  The last thing he hate was that stale piece of bread that’d been slipped through the crack in the metal door of-

 

“Are we close?” he asks.

 

_“I miss that place.”_

 

“Yeah, it’s just around the corner,” Scott says.

 

_It_ can miss that place all it wants, but they’re out now and they’re not going back without a police escort - guns blazing and cuffs ready.  Police cruisers come into view a moment later and the familiar sight has his heart pounding.  He doesn’t even notice the car stopping until Scott nudges him.

 

“Whatever it is, I’m sure they’ll be able to help,” he says quietly.

 

Stiles looks to him, taking in his big brown eyes so full of honesty and his tiny encouraging smile.  For an insane moment, he thinks of not going inside - of just staying in this car, going to lunch, and pretending he’s always been friends with these kids.  He could laugh at inside jokes, have gaming or movie marathons, crazy sleepovers where they share all their secrets, build up the courage to maybe ask Lydia out some day.

 

_“You could have all that, you know.  It’d be easy.  Why should you go back for the others anyway?  You said it yourself.  We’re free now.  We could do anything, **be** anything.”_

 

“Do you want us to come in?” Scott asks.

 

The question pulls him harshly back to reality.  He looks around at the group and with his heart sinking, admits that he isn’t like them - he _can’t_ have this.  Not now, maybe not ever.  He’s been through too much, seen too much, to ever just be a normal teen.

 

“That’s nice of you, but I can handle it from here,” he says.

 

Before he can change his mind - before _it_ can change his mind - he hops out of the car and closes the door softly behind him.  As he walks towards the door, he hears someone call his name.  Looking back, he sees Scott’s head sticking out the window, having climbed over his friend to reach it.

 

“See ya around, sometime?” he asks.  When Stiles hesitates, the boy continues.  “Tell you what.  Stop by the Beacon Bakery when you get time.  There'll be a free pastry of your choice waiting,” he says with another dopey grin.

 

He flips his floppy hair out of his eyes and Stiles can’t help but return the smile.  Something about the kid was just so joyously infectious.  Stiles wishes once again that he’d grown up in this town, that he’d met Scott - and even the others - when he was young.  Maybe if that’d been the case, he wouldn’t have been homeschooled, trapped in the house with his sick mother, or then abandoned to the system after his father threw himself into his work and was killed for it.

 

Stiles is pulled out of the sudden despair when Scott waves jovially and the car takes off.  They were such happy teens, as far as he could tell.  He will admit freely that he envies them.

 

_“Don’t worry, baby.  You still have me.”_

 

“Gee, great,” he sighs.

 

Before It can make another snide comment, Stiles opens the door to the station and steps inside.  The place was quiet save for a few phones ringing.  He cautiously makes his way up to the front desk, gaining the attention of a few deputies.  The one behind the desk smiles, her tag reading ‘Graeme’.

 

“Hi, can I help you?”

 

Stiles swallows around the lump that suddenly forms in his throat.

 

“I hope so,” he says, voice breaking.

 

Her smile slowly fades and she’s quick to come around the desk and lead him to a room.  She’d reached a hand out, but refrained from touching him when he ducked the gesture.  Once inside the small room, behind the two-sided glass, he finds it all much harder than he expected.

 

“Okay,” Officer Graeme says as they sit.  “Tell me how I can help.”

 

Stiles shakes his head, a mirthless huff escaping him.  He runs a hand through his hair, which had grown considerably longer in the past several months.

 

“I don’t know where to start.”

 

“Just start at the beginning.  There’s no rush,” she says, taking out her notepad.

 

He shakes his head again, more vigorously this time.  “No, I have to start at the end.  My friends need help.  They’re being held against their will by our...a...the man that was supposed to be our foster father... _is_ our foster father…” he says, trailing off.  The woman frowns, but doesn’t interrupt.  “He...they’re in _trouble_ okay?  You have to get them out of there.   _Please_.”

 

“Alright, calm down.  Why don’t you give me your name and the name of this man?  I’ll see what I can do,” she says.  Sighing, he figures at least it’s a start.

 

“My name is St- Genim Stilinski, but I go by Stiles.  His name is Co- Wes Lahey,” he says, stumbling over the names.  It took him a moment to remember the guy’s actual name, having been ordered to call him Coach for such a long time.

 

“I’m going to bring this information to the Sheriff and we’ll go from there, okay?” Officer Graeme says.  Stiles nods and she gently - and quickly - pats his hand before walking out of the room.

 

Catching his reflection on the two-way is shocking enough that he can’t tear his eyes away.  His skin is snow white and sickly looking, his cheekbones more prominent than he’s ever seen them.  But it’s his eyes, which used to be a familiar honey brown, but are so dark they’re almost black.  He doesn’t recognize himself at all.

 

_“It’s just because I’m closer to the surface, darlin.  Don’t worry.  It’s not so bad in here,”_ It says, tapping It’s own temple.

 

“Shut up,” he whispers.

 

It grins, the familiar lips once again twisting into a parody of his own smile.

 

_“You can’t keep me locked inside forever, Stiles.”_

 

Terror rushes through him, but his reflection simply smirks.

 

_“It’s only a matter of time.”_


	6. Voices In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad night in the cage leads to an even worse night out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Flashbacks

“You fighting with that?”

 

The new girl nods to his cast, her caramel skin glistening from her work out.

 

“Yeah,” he grunts.  She whistles, seemingly impressed.

 

“Good luck then.”

 

With that, she strolls towards the showers.  Derek watches her go, a surprised and slightly confused frown forming.  Most of the women here were either afraid of him or wanted in his pants - or both.  Maybe it’s just because she’s new, but so far she didn’t seem as threatening as the others.  He’s sure that will change if he ever faces her in the cage.

 

“This is a bad idea,” Ethan grumbles, shaking his head.  Derek rolls his eyes.  “I think you should forfeit.”

 

“No one’s paying you to think,” Derek retorts.

 

“Dick.”

 

His brother simply shrugs.  “Whatever.  I say let him fight.  What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks, a smug smirk on his face.

 

“He’s got a busted rib and a cast on his hand!  He’s gonna fucking lose, that’s what’s gonna happen.”

 

“I won’t lose.”

 

The conviction in his voice surprises even him, but it’s true.  He’s angry enough tonight that knocking some guy to the floor - hard and repeatedly - won’t be a problem.  The alcohol is still sending a decent buzz through his system so that he barely feels the throb in his side, or the ache in his hand.

 

“See?” Aiden says.  “Nothing to worry about, bro, ‘cause The Wolf isn’t gonna lose.”

 

It’s hard to buy it as a compliment, given the condescending tone.  Derek scowls at him, slams his locker closed, and makes his way down the hall.  Behind the door can be heard the roar of a large crowd, anticipation thick in the air as they wait for the match to begin.  The darkness of the small entranceway closes in on him, threatening to suffocate him and bring the voices to the surface.

 

The tapping of a cane makes him tense, the owner watching him from the corner.  Metal scrapes against cement as the man comes closer, looming just behind Derek’s shoulder.

 

“Make me proud, little wolf.”

 

_Come here, my little wolf, my little cub._

 

His visions blanks for the second day in a row and he walks dazedly into the arena.

 

* * *

 

_It’ll be over soon, cub.  You’re being so good for me - so strong.  See?  Look here, only a few more matches left._

 

_But-_

 

_Be thankful I’m not using the lighter.  You’re grateful to me, aren’t you, cub?_

 

_Yes, Alpha._

 

Splintering pain ricochets up his arm, into his shoulder, and down his back.  A warm crimson spray covers his face and torso as his cast comes away from the man’s skull, dripping blood to the already streaked concrete floor.  His opponent flops to the ground with a sickening thud and the crowd cheers.

 

Derek closes his eyes, head tilted to the bright lights, as he forces his breathing under control.  He can’t stop the exhilarating thrill from burning through his body.  Even if he knew how, he wouldn’t want to.  He’d learned long ago that if he fought hard enough, pushed himself to the brink, that the memories and the voices they bring didn’t linger as long.  All his guilt, all the regret he’s built up just drifts away, as if none of it ever happened.  It’ll be rough coming down from it later, but he won’t think of that now.

 

“And the winner is The Wolf!” the announcer yells.  “Two nights in a row - ladies and gentleman, I sure hope you bet wisely,” he chuckles.

 

Derek blinks his eyes open and glances at the crowd.   _This_ is the only part he hates.  Seeing these people throw their fists high and chant his stage name, their greed palpable in the air.  He feels their eyes on him, roaming all over his half naked body.  The attention threatens to pull him back under, pull him down to where the memories lie.  His reaction doesn’t surprise him.  It happens every time he doesn’t get out of the cage fast enough.

 

Derek makes sure to keep himself steady as he heads for the cage door.  The crowd - as it always does - groans in disappointment that he doesn’t give a witty parting line before he leaves.

 

“No need to worry folks, The Wolf will be back tomorrow night,” the announcer says.  “And the next night,” he continues with a laugh.

 

His voice drops along with the lights and the crowd goes quiet, waiting for it.

 

“And this Saturday night, it’s a fight you won’t want to miss, as a _newcomer_ takes on The Wolf in a much awaited...Death Match!” he shouts.

 

The crowd goes wild.

 

“That’s right, folks.  For the first time all year, The Wolf will finally turn into the beast we’ve waited to see.  The only question is...will it be enough or will this new _young_ _woman_ silence his mighty howl?”

 

Derek slams the door to the hallway as the spectators erupt into a chorus of half cheers and half boos.   _A woman...he’ll be fighting a **woman** in the death cage._  He stumbles his way back to the locker room and sits heavily on the bench.  Something cold has seeped into his skin, into his very muscles.  He lets his head fall back against the metal with a quiet rattle.   _It’ll be fine.  It’s not any different than tonight's fight._

 

_You’re not a killer, Derek._

 

She was wrong.  Out of all the things his mother taught him, _that_ was the biggest mistake she made.  She had him believing that what happened wasn’t his fault.  But it _was_ and he’d known it then, just as he knows it now.

 

“Great job out there.”

 

Derek startles so badly, he almost falls off the bench.  He shakes his head, trying to clear it.  Blinking, he looks up to find the same woman as before staring down at him, slowly dragging a towel through her hair.  She pauses slightly at his reaction, a small v forming between her brows.

 

He grunts in answer and grabs his sweatshirt to throw on.  His stiff muscles pull uncomfortably, but it’s his rib that flares up unexpectedly.  The pain has him bracing a hand against the lockers as it pushes a rattling cough out of him.  Sharp agony punches through his chest as it feels like the bones shift and grind together.

 

“Damn,” the girl says.

 

Her fingers on his side send a jolt through his system and he instantly shoves her hand away.  Derek glares, but she doesn’t back away, remaining perfectly still - assessing the threat.  After a moment, she unfreezes and nods to herself.

 

“Well, _that_ looks like a busted rib and _you_ look like you could use a drink,” she says, head tilted in amusement.  “Wanna join me?”

 

“No,” he grumbles.

 

He snatches up his bag, once again not moving slow enough for his battered body.  Wincing, he manages to pull it onto his shoulder somehow.

 

The woman snorts and says, “Oh, come on.  It’s not like you’re gonna be doing anything different tonight.  Would you rather drink alone or with a fellow fighter?”

 

“Alone.”

 

“I promise to keep my hands to myself,” she says, chuckling.

 

“I said no, now back off,” he snaps.  She raises a brow, but simply shrugs.

 

“Alright, have it your way, Wolf.”

 

Derek gives her one last parting glare before stomping his way to the exit.  As he’s walking through the darkened hallway, he wonders if she’ll be the one in the death cage with him.  He can’t decide if that’s terrifying or exciting.

 

The office door swings open and Ethan beckons him inside.

 

“How’s the rib?” he asks, brows raised mockingly.

 

“It’s fine.”

 

The kid scowls and crosses the room to stand by his brother.

 

“Still undefeated, I see,” Aiden grumbles.

 

The humor from earlier has vanished, leaving the guy with a jealous tone.  Derek smirks just to piss him off.

 

“Very nice work, tonight, Wolf.”

 

Derek is thankful the man didn’t use the pet name he enjoys so much.  Once was enough tonight.  He knows it was only used to rile him up before the fight.  It worked and the man _knows_ it.

 

“Another $500 for you,” he says and slides the cash over the desk.  “I hear one of your hands is in a cast,” he adds.  Derek shoots a heated glare to Aiden, who shrugs.

 

“Yeah, but it’s fine.  I can still fight with it - _did_ fight with it.  I don’t need any time off-”

 

“Slow down, Wolf.  No one’s making you leave,” Deucalion says, a slow grin coming to his face.  “Though I’m tempted, after last time.  You came back from that month in a new gear.  Two weeks straight.  I was impressed.”

 

“I can-”

 

“Shh, Wolf,” he whispers.  “You don’t need to prove yourself to me.  You already have my respect.  If you say you can fight, then I won’t stop you.”

 

The hushed tone skitters across his skin, making it crawl.  He can only imagine how the man’s eyes would travel over him if they weren’t hidden by the ever present glasses.  Derek is once again immensely glad he can’t actually see him.

 

The back door opening cuts off the uncomfortable silence.  Derek sighs and averts his gaze as Jungle’s manager sweeps into the room.  Seeing him, she clucks in disappointment, as she does every time she sees him.

 

“We miss you upstairs, Wolf.  My ladies are always asking for another performance.  Sure you couldn’t use the extra money?” she asks.

 

“Kali, we’ve been over this,” Deucalion says with a sigh.  “The boy doesn’t want to dance for you.  He much prefers the _cage_...don’t you, Wolf?” he asks.

 

He strokes his fingers over his cane, pleased anytime he can make Derek squirm.  It doesn’t matter that he can’t see Derek’s reaction.  He just _knows_.  Derek quickly retrieves his money, turns his back, and slips out the door.

 

He doesn’t take time to catch his breath, simply keeps walking at a fast pace until he reaches the alley once again.  Derek sighs, looking to the sky - to the stars he can’t see past the lights - and leans against the brick wall.  He’ll just stand here, closing his eyes, until the world stops trying to drown him.

 

“Uh...Der?”

 

Spikes of rage and heat rush through his body and when his eyes open he finds his cast pinned against a throat.

 

_It hurts, Der._

 

“Fuck, sorry, bad call,” Danny chokes.

 

Shocked at his own violent reaction, Derek quickly releases the boy and backs away.  He’s never seriously hurt him before.  Not like this.  Danny sucks in air, rubbing the circulation back into his skin.  He squints at Derek, wary expression on his face.

 

Derek opens his mouth, but once again can’t force the words out.  He darts his gaze away, no longer able to look at him.  His friend marches up to him, trying to make eye contact.  Derek manages for a few seconds before breaking it again.

 

“Right, okay,” Danny rasps.  “I’m just gonna take the shifty eyes as an apology.”

 

Derek winces and can’t even nod in agreement.  The gesture would be just as bad as uttering the words.

 

“Bad fight?”

 

“It was fine,” he says.

 

“You, uh...you still have blood…” he says, gesturing at nothing.  “Um, everywhere,” he finishes.

 

Derek looks down at himself and simply frowns at the red still coating his mostly bare chest.  He zips up his hoodie, not wanting to go back inside to clean up.  Danny grimaces, looking slightly squeamish.

 

“Right, well, anyway...you need a ride home?”

 

Derek thinks about being trapped in the tiny car with him and slowly shakes his head.

 

“I’ll walk.”

 

“It’s freezing out,” Danny protests.

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“Derek, you live 10 miles from here.  I mentioned it’s _freezing_ , right?”

 

“It’s fine,” he says again.

 

Something snapped in his head when he hurt the kid, something he’s finding hard to repair.  Everything feels very far away, very disconnected from him.  He just knows that he has to get away before he does something he regrets...or something _else_ , rather - something worse.

 

“Go home, Danny,” he mumbles.  The kid splutters for a moment and tries to talk him out of it again, but Derek’s already stumbling away down the sidewalk.

 

His friend doesn’t follow him this time, which he’s grateful for.  He watches the cracks disappear under his feet as he goes.  He’s numbly aware of his body reacting to the cold, skin prickling, nose running, and eyes watering from the wind.

 

“Hey, Wolf!”

 

Derek stutters to a stop, head snapping up.  A few feet away, sitting on the back of a bench, is the girl from The Den.  He blinks in surprise and then looks around at their surroundings.  It’s a bus stop, that much is obvious.  She’s bundled up in multiple sweaters and a pair of thick sweats, elbows braced on her knees and beer bottle dangling from her fingers.

 

“Want one?” she asks, nudging the case towards him.

 

Derek narrows his eyes, wondering what the odds of this are, but finds his feet slowly carrying him forward.  He carefully sits and glances up at her.  She quirks her brows and nods to the beer.

 

“Help yourself.”

 

For a moment, he wonders if it could be poisoned, and in the next moment decides he doesn’t care.  If it is...well, it’s just his time then.  He sits back, takes a bottle, and uncaps it.  It’s a good brand by the taste of it, but then again he doesn't drink beer all that often.  It never gets him drunk fast enough.  He thinks of asking if she’s the one he’ll be fighting, but once again decides he doesn’t care enough to speak.

 

“You wanna know who it is?” she asks, unprompted.

 

“No,” he grumbles.

 

She sighs sharply.  “She’s a street kid.  Maybe 19 at the most.  Thinks she can get a good rep by taking you out.  Her name’s-”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Knowing her name won’t make a diff-”

 

“What’s yours?” he asks, trying to redirect her.

 

She huffs, but answers nonetheless.  “Braeden.  I decided not to go with a stage name.  What about you?  Everyone just call you ‘The Wolf’?” she asks with a laugh.

 

“Yep,” he mutters, uncapping another beer.

 

“Uh huh.  What about the breaks?  Those from a fight?”

 

“Why are you so interested?” he snaps, fed up with the questions.

 

Braeden simply pauses at the attitude, before shrugging it off.  “Just trying to be friendly.  Meant nothing by it,” she mutters, sipping her beer.

 

_I didn’t mean it, Alpha, I’m sorry!_

 

“Whatever,” he grunts.  He downs the bottle in a few large gulps, but it’s not nearly enough.

 

“Well,” she chirps into the awkward silence.  “I’m hungry, so I guess I’ll see you around, Wolf.”  Braeden hops off the bench and glances back at him.  “Unless you’d like to come?  I’m just going to the diner down the street.  I’ll even pay,” she offers, bobbing her brows.

 

Derek doesn’t like how persistent she is.  But he likes even less having to eat the defrosted peas at home - literally the only thing left in his kitchen.

 

Still, he can’t get passed the alarm bells ringing in his head.  This girl is clearly dangerous - trained to fight, aggressive, confident.  He’s had enough of those types to last a lifetime.

 

A bus pulling up makes his decision for him.

 

“I should get home,” he mumbles.  For the first time, she looks slightly annoyed at his rejection, but she covers it quickly with another shrug.

 

“Suit yourself.”

 

Derek watches her walk away, feeling like maybe he was too harsh, like he should apolo-

 

He gets on the bus and doesn’t look back.  Letting Danny in was enough.  He can’t afford to have another person in his life that he feels the need to use those words with - be _careful_ with.  No, he’s going home, and he’s going to avoid her at the den.  That’s the only option here.

 

After riding through town - and the accompanying city - for over four hours, he finally manages to step back into his apartment.  He doesn’t get mugged on the way in this time at least.  Inside, he drops his keys into the unused ashtray, flings his bag to the floor, and simply stands there.  It’s quiet and empty.  For the first time, it’s the exact opposite of what he wants.

 

Derek crawls his way onto the couch and lies down - begins watching the fan spin again.

 

_“No, no!  They’re inside, Peter, they’re in the house!”_

 

_Strong arms wrap around him from behind, holding him back from the inferno.  Laura stands frozen, silent tears streaming down her face - holding a screaming Cora in her arms._

 

_“Let me go, we have to, we can-”_

 

_“We can’t.  It’s done,” Peter says._

 

_Just like that, the fight leaves him and he sags in his uncle’s arms.  The embrace tightens._

 

_“Shh, it’s alright, I’ve got you.  I’ve got you, little wolf.”_

 

The terror behind his own scream is what wakes him from the nightmare.  Teeth gritted, nails digging into the cushions, the air gets lodged in his throat as he holds back another reflexive scream.  His muscles tremble as the adrenaline drains out of him, leaving him shivering and still frozen in place.  He counts the rounds of the spinning fan above him until it makes him dizzy.

 

When his body unthaws enough to move, he carefully gets to his feet - ignoring the creak of his rib - and weaves his way to the bathroom.  The light flickers before going out altogether, but he turns the tap on anyway and splashes his face with cold water.  There’s no mirror because he’d smashed it the day he moved in.  It was safer than risking seeing his reflection, even for an instance.

 

Derek unzips his hoodie and splashes his torso, wiping down the best he can in the dark, knowing the blood is still caked onto his skin.  There’s no towels because it’s another commodity he couldn’t be bothered to buy - even if he’d had the money.  His fingers instinctively trace over the scars on his abdomen - now healed and pale from time passing.  Derek braces himself against the sink as the memories come unhinged.

 

_“What is it he calls you?  His ‘little wolf’?” she asks, giggling.  “That’s cute,” she whispers.  Her hands skim down his sides, nails digging in, making him gasp into her mouth.  “But you know who you belong to, don’t you, sweetie?”_

 

_He only gets a glimpse of the shining metal before it’s creating scarlet ribbons along his skin._

 

_“You’re mine,” she hisses.  “You’ll be mine forever.”_

 

Shoving away from the sink, he rushes into the kitchen, and rummages through his cabinets.   _Empty, empty, empty…_

 

“Fuck,” he sighs, banging his head against the wooden cabinet door.

 

He drank the last bottle yesterday morning.  The only package store in town closed 30 minutes ago.

 

“Fuck,” he grumbles.

 

The only option is a bar and there’s only one that will be open this late. Throwing on a shirt and his leather jacket, he grabs his keys-

 

“Fuck,” he yells this time, as he remembers he no longer has a car.

 

It doesn’t matter.  He can’t stay in this stupid apartment anymore.  Derek slams the door and stomps his way down the stairs.

 

He runs into his landlord on the way out the front door.

 

“Derek?  Everything alright?”

 

“Fine,” he snaps.

 

He hears the man sigh, but as predicted, he doesn’t call him back or chase after him.  They weren’t friends, they were barely acquaintances.

 

If he walked, the bar would be closed by the time he got there.  He strolls to the bus stop a block away, sits down on the bench, and waits.  After about ten minutes, he sighs and stomps his way to the phone booth on the corner.

 

“Hey, sugar, you wanna-”

 

“Fuck off,” he says.

 

The woman frowns, gives him the finger, and then teeters further down the street on her ridiculously high heels.  Derek flips open the dusty phone book before digging in his jeans for quarters and dialing.

 

“Abel’s Cab, can I-”

 

“Yeah, I’m on State Pier Road.  I need a ride to Jungle.”

 

“Where on State Pier?”

 

Derek sighs and looks for an address on one of the buildings.  There are none.  Of course there isn’t.

 

“Fuck, I don’t know, I’m on the corner by the pay phone.”

 

“Sir, I can’t send a cab if I don’t know the add-

 

“Are you serious?” he sighs.  He doesn’t even yell, too discouraged to manage it.

 

“Yes, the computer system won’t-”

 

“Forget it,” he mutters and slams the phone down.  He glares at it, need for a drink rising until his fingers are twitching and he’s picking the receiver back up.  “Fuck it,” he says and dials before he can change his mind.

 

“‘Lo?”

 

“Come pick me up.”

 

“What?  Who’s this?”

 

“Derek.  Come get me.  We’re going to Jungle.”

 

There’s a pause and then Danny asks “Like...to party?”  Derek rolls his eyes at the word choice, but sure, if it gets him off this street corner and to the bar, then yeah, fine, they’re partying.

 

“Yeah.  Just come get me.”

 

“Oh, sweet.  I’ve been trying to drag you out for a good time for forever.  This is gonna be awesome, you have no idea-”

 

“Danny,” he snaps.  “Shut up.  Corner of State Pier,” he says and then hangs up.

 

He jams his hands in his pockets and lingers by the curb, desperately trying to avoid the girls prowling around him.  Either he’s sending off dangerous vibes or that girl from earlier spread the word because they don’t approach him.  Thirty minutes later, Danny’s beat up sedan smoothly pulls up and he jumps in.

 

“What the fuck took so long?” he grumbles.

 

“Hello to you too, grumpy,” Danny says.  He looks him over.  “Really?  You didn’t even get dressed up for this?”

 

“Just drive.”  

 

Danny huffs, but complies.  “So, why the sudden change?  You hate Jungle.”

 

“The packy is closed.”

 

Danny raises a brow, but doesn’t comment.  When they arrive, Derek remembers why he hates this stupid place.  It’s ridiculously crowded even though it’s 3 in the morning and the club will be closing in an hour.  It doesn’t matter.  An hour should be enough time to get wasted, go home, and pass out.  When he climbs out of the car, his friend chases after him.

 

“Wait, wait, we need a game plan.  Are we here to hook up, dance, drink, all of the above?  What?  Talk to me, man.”

 

“You can do what you want,” he says.  He gets in the stupidly long line, fidgeting uncontrollably as the panic starts to creep back in.  “Why is it so fucking crowded?  It’s 3 in the morning.”  He catches Danny eyeing him warily, brows pulled in concern.  “What?” he snaps.

 

“Nothing.  You just seem...I don’t know,” he trails off with a sigh.

 

When Derek starts craning his neck to see around the line, Danny scoffs and grabs hold of his sleeve.  He’s fully prepared to slap his hand away, but the kid starts dragging him through the crowd towards the front.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Just trust me,” he says.

 

_You need to trust me, little wolf, or this will never work._

 

_Don’t you trust me, sweetie?_

 

Derek keeps a lid on the sudden rush of anxiety, not willing to freak out in a crowd.  His friend pushes their way to the front, right up to the velvet rope and bouncer blocking the entrance.  To his shock, the bouncer’s face lights up in a grand smile when he sees the kid.

 

“Danny!  You’re not scheduled for another performance are you?”

 

“Nah, just here to party this time.”

 

“And is this your date?” the man asks, eyes travelling over him.

 

Derek scowls, but it only seems to make the guy grin more.  Danny laughs and shoots a quick glance Derek’s way.  He seems to hesitate for a split second before shaking his head.

 

“Nope, just a friend.  I’m _lookin’_ for a date though, so keep your eyes open.”

 

“Will do, baby.”

 

The man unlatches the rope and ushers them inside.  Derek sidesteps the hurrying hand he tries to land on his back.

 

“Would you relax?  We’re here to have fun,” Danny whispers.

 

“No, I’m here to get drunk,” he mutters, glaring at the mob of people he’s just stepped into.

 

He doesn’t wait for a response, making his way to the bar.  He flags the bartender down, pleased to find the service fairly quick.

 

“A Long Island - extra-long, and whatever he wants,” he says, pointing Danny’s way.

 

“Sex on the Beach,” Danny orders.  The bartender starts mixing their drinks, Derek watching to make sure the ratio is how he wants it.  “Please tell me you’re not gonna just brood at the bar the whole night?  It’s a _dance_ club.  You’re supposed to _dance_.”

 

Derek glances at the dance floor, sees how close everyone’s grinding on each other.  “Not a chance in hell,” he says.  “Hey, all the way to the top,” he says to the bartender.

 

The guy nods and does as asked.  Their drinks are up within a few minutes and Derek wastes no time in sucking down a large portion of it on the first pull.  His skin tingles, fingers slowly ceasing their shaking, as it courses through his blood.  He’s hoping it’ll hit quick, given he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning.

 

_I’m so hungry, Der._

 

“You need to breathe between gulps, you know,” Danny mutters.

 

Derek glares at him and finishes his drink within ten minutes.  He orders another.

 

“Ah, shit.”

 

“What?”

 

“My ex is here,” Danny sighs.

 

Derek can’t help his curiosity and looks over, finding a slim man wearing a dark tank-top and a gold hoop in his ear.  He looks like a douche.  By Danny’s sour expression, Derek figures his assumption is right.

 

“Derek, you gotta help me out here.  One dance.  Pretend to be really into me.  Come on, he’s looking,” his friend says rapidly and then - horrifyingly - drags him onto the dance floor.

 

“Danny-”

 

“Derek, I do a lot of shit for you, the least you could do is be uncomfortable for 3 minutes tops.”

 

Sighing, he lets the kid pull him further into the crowd.  Maybe if he did this, it’d make up for some of the shit he’s done to him.  Danny starts moving to the music, naturally swaying his hips and drawing eyes.  When Derek proves to be stiff and awkward, the kid grabs his hands and places them on his hips as he grinds his back against Derek’s front.  The alcohol has the music slurring into an unusual angry beat, but it wraps easily around him as if an old friend.

 

He lets Danny guide his movements and soon enough they both forget why they started this or how they got here.  It’s all going fine until Danny turns in his embrace, making him realize that _yes_ , they really are that close and _yes_ those are the kid’s hands gripping his shoulders, and _yes, Derek, that is exactly what you think it is pressed against you_.

 

_Don’t be afraid, little cub, give it a feel._

 

Derek quickly puts more space between them, but doesn’t discourage the dancing, not wanting to alert his friend.  The kid’s smile falters for a moment, his hands suddenly unsure and unsteady on Derek’s shoulders.  He leans in and for a terrifying moment, Derek thinks he’s aiming for a kiss, but all he does is shout in his ear.

 

“I’m gonna get some more drinks.  You stay here.  Have fun,” he says.

 

Before he can object, the kid disappears into the crowd, leaving him stranded in a sea of people.  Not knowing what to do on his own, he shuffles his feet a bit and tries to avoid the other bodies wiggling around him.  It’s actually not bad, if a bit hot and suffocating.  He can manage that though.  It’s still better than his apartment.  Closing his eyes, he pretends he’s the only one in the room and just sways to the music.  Someone bumps into him roughly, but he ignores it.

 

Until large hands with long fingers are gripping his hips tightly and a broad chest is being pressed against his back.  For a dizzying moment he’s frozen, the music and alcohol numbing his response.

 

“You look real good, tonight, sweetheart.  Just my type.”

 

_I like you all dressed up like this, sweetie.  You’re so handsome, you know that?  ...But, babe, I think it’s time we get that tie off.  Whataya say?_

 

Danny returns, wedging himself between some blonde chick and Derek’s front.

 

“The line was _way_ too long, man.  I’ll try again - hey, you found a friend,” he says, grinning.  The kid winks at whoever’s got a hold on his hips before swaying his way back into Derek’s space.  “See, this isn’t so bad.  You’re actually having fun, imagine that.”

 

He grinds up against him, hands back on his shoulders, confidence returning.  Derek grabs onto his hips for something to tether him before he flies off the handle.

 

“Damn, what I wouldn’t give to have you tonight,” the man says in his ear.

 

One of his hands travels up Derek’s side, swooping low to play with the hem of his shirt.  His fingers play with the small strip of hair he finds, nails biting into his skin.  Derek slowly comes to a stop, body tensing.

 

“Would you like that, baby?” he rasps.  The hand travels lower and his vision blanks.

 

“Derek!”

 

A handsome face, a fist, strangers all around him, a body hitting the floor, a fist - his fist, a face.

 

“Derek, stop!”

 

_Derek, help!_

 

_Oh no, baby, he can’t help you.  He knows better.  Don’t you, little wolf?_

 

“Derek!”

 

_Derek, help her, damn it!_

 

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…_

 

Hands pulling at him, dragging him.

 

_It’s okay, Der…_

 

“Derek, stop fighting them!”

 

_I’ll be okay…_

 

Pinpricks of cold slap against his wrists.

 

_Do I need to get the restraints, sweetie?_

 

_No, I-_

 

_Oh, I think I do._

 

“Either calm him down or I will taze him!”

 

Hands on his face, grabbing at his shoulders, pulling him forward.

 

“Derek, listen to me, it’s Danny, man, you need to chill, okay?  We’re not in the club, we’re outside, everything’s fine.”

 

_Everything’s fine, Laura._

 

_No, it’s not.  What the fuck, Derek?  You just **stood** there.  How could you do that?_

 

_She’ll be okay._

 

_You better **pray** you’re right._

Derek screams and then chokes as his body seized.  Everything truly - blissfully - goes dark this time.  It pulls him under and he doesn’t fight it.  He crawls into that darkness and prays he’ll never come out.


	7. Corrupt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets the Sheriff of Beacon Hills and tells his story.

“No, _no_ , you’re not _listening_ to me,” he shouts, jumping to his feet.

 

“What you are saying makes no sense,” the Sheriff says slowly, as if he’s an insolent child.

 

“How do you _know_ that?  You haven’t even looked into it-”

 

“I don’t need to look into it because I already know it’s a lie,” the man yells.  “I don’t know what kind of prank you’re trying to pull, but the person you’re accusing of all these horrible things is a good man - a _respected_ man of the town.  He goes to Church, he volunteers...I’ve invited him and his son to picnics for Christ’s sake.  There is _no way_ he’s-”

 

“Oh my god, don’t you see?  That’s the perfect cover!  Respected man of the community, a church goer…,” Stiles says, trailing off with a scoff.

 

It figured.  Coach _would_ try to blend in as much as possible; can’t have anyone getting suspicious and come snooping around after all.  The futility of it all has him shaking his head, panic welling up again.

 

“I’m not making this up!  Lahey has four teenagers - his own son included - locked up in his house against their will.  I escaped, but he caught them.  I promised I’d get them out.  Please, you _have_ to believe me.”

 

Sheriff Haigh had, in the past five minutes, seemingly lost all interest in Stiles’ pleading.  He’d kicked back his chair, crossed his arms, and simply stared.  Stiles continues to stare back, hoping his desperation is leaking through enough to convince this man.

 

“No,” Haigh says.  “I don’t believe you and I will not drag an innocent man through an investigation.  It would ruin him.  Besides, how am I supposed to trust the word of some runaway?” he asks with a shrug.

 

“What the fuck kind of cop are you?” Stiles asks loudly.

 

He jumps back to his feet, outraged at this man’s attitude.  He knew how cops worked, he knew how they were supposed to handle something like this.  If this was his father, if he were the Sheriff here-

 

“Watch it, kid.  You aren’t exactly on my good side.  Insulting me won’t get you anywhere.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Haigh rises to his feet, getting in his face.

 

“You wanna be a smartass?  You really wanna see where that’ll get you?” he snaps.

 

“Sir-” Officer Graeme tries.

 

“Shut it, Graeme.  Get this kid out of my sight and into a cell.  I’ll decide what to do with him later.”

 

“What?!”  Stiles shrieks.

 

“Sheriff-”

 

“Do it, Graeme, or I’ll find an officer who will,” the Sheriff barks.

 

The woman frowns, gaze darting between her superior and Stiles.  He shakes his head frantically, backing away into the wall.  He won’t go back into a cell, he _won’t_.

 

With a sigh, the woman beckons him forward.

 

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,” she says.  When he doesn’t move, body plastered to the wall, she approaches slowly.  “I won’t drag you there and I won’t cuff you, but I need you to come with me.  Nothing bad will happen, I promise, Stiles,” she says.

 

“Like I haven’t heard that before.”

 

“Kid…” she sighs.

 

“No,” he snaps.  “If you’re not going to investigate and I’m not being arrested, then you can’t hold me here.”

 

Officer Graeme pauses, head tilted.  With a slow nod, she takes a step back.

 

“That’s true, sir.  We can’t hold him-”

 

“I can hold him on whatever charges I want.  I am your superior.  Either obey, or I'll have you suspended without pay.”

 

To Stiles’ dismay, the woman surrenders, her shoulders slumping in defeat.  She looks none too pleased, but she still turns back to Stiles and gently grabs his elbow.

 

“No, I’m not going-”

 

“Yes, you are.”

 

“No, let go of me!”

 

Stiles tries to rip out of her hold, but finds her to be much stronger than he anticipated.  He struggles as hard as he can, pushing and pulling at her until she’s fumbling.  They stumble to the floor and he lands on his back.  Kicking out his feet, he manages to dislodge her grip and race towards the door.  Ripping it open, he’s able to make it halfway through the front office before running into a horde of officers.

 

“Shit,” he breathes.  They stare at him in confusion and he doesn’t hesitate to try to run past them.

 

“Stop him!” Haigh shouts.

 

Out of nowhere, right before he reaches the front door, a young deputy grabs him roughly by the arm, spinning him face first into a desk.  Grunting and panting, Stiles continues to struggle.  His efforts double when he feels cold steel slap around his wrists.

 

“No, no, I didn’t do anything!”

 

The deputy uses just enough force to keep him down, his hands sure and steady.  The amount of confidence he’s exuding is why Stiles is surprised at his next words.

 

“Sorry, but there’s no running in the building,” he says lightly.

 

Stiles pauses at that, a confused frown forming.  Before he can respond, he’s jerked up off the desk, back onto his feet.  He cranes his neck to see who has him and blinks a few times at how young the guy is.  He can’t be much older than Stiles himself and yet he has so much more power.  It’s ridiculous.

 

The man shuffles him forward and when Stiles digs his feet in, a broad chest is being pushed up against his back, forcing him further into the cell.  The deputy locks himself inside with him and for a moment Stiles panics.  They aren’t in a private cell, just the holding area in the front office.  Something horrifically awful like what he’s picturing in his head would _not_ happen here, right?

 

Once locked in, hands skim down his forearms, fingers pausing at his scars.

 

“How did you get these?”

 

“None of your business,” he grumbles.

 

Sighing, the guy clicks his cuffs open.  “You know, it’s not the first time I’ve heard that today” he mutters.

 

Stiles backs away from him, rubbing the sensitive skin at his wrists.  He expects the deputy to leave, but the man lingers, staring at him.

 

“What’re you doing?” Stiles asks warily.

 

If something happened, he doubts he has any chance of fighting this guy off.  He could try screaming for help, but considering how Haigh treated not only him, but his own deputies, there’s a slim chance anyone would come running.  There’s the man in the cell next to him, but he looks to be asleep.  Or passed out.  Honestly, he could be dead for all Stiles knows.  He’s pale enough to pull off ‘dead’ anyway.

 

“Deputy Graeme told me your story,” the man says.  Stiles snaps to attention at that, that rare bubble of hope resurfacing.  “You’ve accused one of the Sheriff’s personal friends of some serious crimes.”

 

Hope dashed.  Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“Yeah, well, a lot of good it’s doing me,” he counters.  Stiles leans back against the concrete, arms folded across his chest.  “Should’ve just stayed there,” he mumbles.

 

If he hadn’t escaped, he’d be with his friends, trying to protect them every chance he got.  Sure, he’d still be trapped with Coach, in that godforsaken room, alone in the dark, but at least he’d know he wasn’t _really_ alone.  As fucked up as it was, he always knew his friends were just on the other side of the wall - sometimes _literally_ , locked up in the room next to his.  His friends’ cries and screams will never fade from his memory.

 

“Listen, respected man of the town or not, you’ve made these accusations and you deserve to be heard.”

 

Stiles’ eyes widen and he takes a hesitant step forward.

 

“You believe me?” he asks.

 

The guy narrows his eyes, searching his face for something - for what, Stiles isn’t sure.

 

“Honestly, it sounds like a hell of a story.  Whether or not it’s true, I won’t know until I talk to Mr. Lahey himself.  I’ve never met the man, but I’ve heard good things.”

 

Stiles holds in the scream that tries to force its way out.  There was _nothing_ good about that man.

 

“But...no one really knows what goes on behind closed doors, right?” the Deputy asks quietly.

 

Stiles doesn’t respond, hoping his stubborn silence is answer enough.  He leans back against the wall, putting more space between them.  Olive branch or not, the guy still worked for that crooked Sheriff.  No one could be trusted here.

 

“Look, I can’t go through _Haigh_ for obvious reasons, but...I’ll look into it.  I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try.  Me and Graeme both,” he says, nodding to the woman standing outside the bars.  She gives a weak smile of supposed reassurance, making him realize they must be partners.  He wants to believe them, wants to believe that they’ll help, but he just doesn’t.  

 

Stiles decides to ignore them, sit down on the small bench in his new cell, and stare at the bars as the deputy leaves.  The click of the lock sounds a little too final, setting him on edge.  He wants to pace, but doesn’t want to waste his energy.  If he gets any kind of chance to break out of here, he’s gonna need to be able to run at full speed.  As a distraction, he watches the deputies’ mill about, drinking coffee and chatting about nonsense.

 

After a while, the guy in the next cell proves to be alive by bolting upright in what looks like terror before bending over the side of the bench to puke his guts out.


	8. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though they are strangers...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'VE BEEN TRYING TO UPLOAD THIS CHAPTER FOR 4 DAYS. Excuse the caps, but there was some glitchy stuff happening. But it's finally here and you all would think I'm crazy with how loud I cheered when it worked.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy :)

Every time he thinks it’s going to stop, more acid rises up his throat to fill his mouth, and splash onto the floor.  Every time he pushes one memory down, a new more terrifying one replaces it - and every time he thinks the phantom touches have faded, a stray non-existent hand travels down his back, as if trying to soothe him.  But it’s not soothing.  That hand has never been soothing and it never will be.  He wants it gone like he wants to be gone from this cell, gone from this town, gone from this life.

 

“Hey, you alright?  Here, drink this.”

 

Someone hands him a full bottle of water, which he doesn’t hesitate to take.  It could be laced with something, but he doesn’t care.  Let it kill him, he wants it to be over.  Instead of killing him, however, the water simply soothes his aching throat, and settles his rolling stomach.

 

The hand.  The one that’s been rubbing down his back - it’s not imaginary.  Eyes flashing open, he scrambles away from the person, backing himself against the wall.

 

“How are you feeling?  Are you still gonna puke?  Maybe you should drink some more water.”

 

Derek glances to the guy in front of him, taking him in.

 

_It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him, I’m fine, I’m safe, everything’s fine, it’s not him._

 

He chants that to himself for a few minutes, his body slowly relaxing muscle by muscle.  Eventually, he reaches out a shaking hand for the water, grateful this cop is being so generous.  It’s not the first time he’s been arrested and he’s sure it won’t be the last.  This man is new, though.

 

“You’re new,” he mumbles.

 

The guy raises a surprised brow before nodding.

 

“Just started a week ago.  I take it you’re a regular.”

 

Derek just shrugs.  He probably is by now.  Not that he cares.  Not that anyone cares.  He stares at the floor, officially ignoring the officer.  He really doesn’t feel like talking anymore.

 

“Keep sipping that.  I’ll get the janitor in here soon.”

 

Derek shrugs again.  It wouldn’t be the first time he vomited and no one cared enough to clean it up - especially not himself.  At least he’s not face down in it this time.  The deputy eventually strolls off back to his desk, glancing at him and the other prisoner every few minutes.

 

His head is killing him, but it’s not as bad as his arm - the already broken one.  It’s throbbing inside the cast.  He probably made it worse in the struggle at the club.

 

Quickly steering away from that memory, he shifts his gaze to the guy in the cell next to him.  Actually, he looks like a kid - 16 at most.  His eyes catch on the raised lines crisscrossing his forearms and his breath halts.  He knows those kinds of scars - has seen them before.  Derek can’t tear his eyes away for quite a long time; long enough for the kid to notice and quickly pull the sleeves of his thin jacket down.

 

“What are you in for?” he surprises himself by asking.

 

The kid sighs and stares at the floor between his feet.

 

“Well, I came here for help and they think I’m lying, so…” he says with a shrug.  Then he chuckles and says, “I don’t know why I expected any different.”

 

Derek stares at the defeated slump of the kid’s shoulders and feels a stirring in his chest he hasn’t felt in a long time.  He suddenly finds himself wanting to know more.

 

Instead, he just mutters, “Yeah, well, Haigh’s a dick.”

 

The boy snorts and nods in agreement.  He then looks over for the first time, eyes giving Derek a once over.  For the first time in he doesn’t know how many years, the assessment of his person doesn’t make him want to run.  Maybe it’s because there is no lust, no hunger, in the kid’s eyes.  Most people who stare at him look like that and he hates it.

 

“What’re _you_ in for?” he asks.

 

“Bar fight.”

 

The other’s lips almost twitch into a smile.  “Bit clichéd, no?”

 

“Probably,” he responds with a shrug.

 

They stare at each other for what’s most likely an inappropriate time for strangers and Derek wants to ask - wants to ask how he got the scars and who put them there.  But he doesn’t.  If he does, he’d feel obligated to share his own story and he can’t do that.  They continue like this - staring unblinkingly as if having a contest - until that new deputy returns with Haigh hot on his heels.

 

“Stilinski,” the man calls.

 

The boy in the next cell quickly gets to his feet.  Derek tenses as the cage is opened.  For a minute he thinks the kid is going to try to run.  He knows how that plays out.  It won’t end well for him.

 

“What’s happening?” Stilinski asks.

 

“We’re letting you go,” the deputy says.

 

It’s a lie.  Anyone with a working pair of eyes could see that.  The young officer is terrible at hiding it.  Stilinski struggles a bit when handcuffs are slapped on him, but then goes unnaturally still, as if terrified of moving now that he’s been restrained.  Derek knows that look well.  He’s seen it in the mirror as he was forced to watch himself be-

 

Shaking the thoughts off, he focuses back on the room he’s in.  Haigh’s got a smirk on his face, the likes of which Derek has never witnessed.  It’s not the ‘I’m better than you and everyone knows it’ smirk.  It’s something much darker.

 

“Where are you taking me?” Stilinski asks.

 

Derek winces at the emotionless tone to his voice.  He wonders if the kid has practiced it as much as he has.  The deputy leads him out of the cell and towards the back hallway.  Derek has never been lead that way, nor has he seen anyone else.  His grip on the bottle tightens until it crackles loudly in the silence.  He doesn’t know why all of this is bothering him so much.  Stilinski was a stranger to him, he shouldn’t care.

 

As Haigh follows them across the room, his whispered words to the kid might as well have been a shout.

 

“Hope you enjoy your stay at Eichen, kid.”

 

Derek’s heart starts to race and his eyes dart back to the boy.  His eyes have widened to an alarming degree, his breath becoming rapid and uneven.

 

“No, no, you can’t…” he trails off as the young deputy pushes him forward.

 

As he’s dragged away, his screams reach a level Derek has only heard come from his own mouth.  It’s ripped out of him - high pitched and soaked in so much fear Derek feels like it should be bringing the walls down around them.

 

Though they are strangers, Derek will never forget the terror on his face, the way he clawed at the walls, the sound of his voice growing hoarse as his screams tore his throat apart.

 

Or the way the door clanged as it slammed closed, the boy’s cries fading as he was dragged away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to warn everyone now that Derek and Stiles won't meet again for several chapters. This was just a quick meeting to lay the groundwork. I hope you enjoy their separate chapters as well, as they meet more of the characters. Please be patient :)


	9. Needle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows this place - has been here before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but important.

They must have drugged him at some point because the next time he blinks, he’s been strapped to a gurney - nurses rolling him down a long hallway.  He tries to talk, tries to tell them to stop, to let him go, that he’s not supposed to be here, that his friends need help, but all of his words come out slurred.

 

The gurney comes to a stop and glancing around the best he can, he sees a small room with too-white cinder block walls.  At first, Stiles thought he’d heard the Sheriff wrong, but it’s clear now that he hadn’t.  He knows this place - has been here before.

 

Eichen.

 

The place his mother wasted away, her mind fading and taking her personality with it.  The woman that died inside these walls hadn’t been his mother for months.  It strangled the woman that used to read him stories, used to sing him to sleep, used to wipe away his tears when he cried.  Stiles sat by her bed - sometimes all day and all night - hoping for a sign that told him she was coming back to him, but it never happened.  In the end, she’d died right in front of him.

 

Her death comes back to him now in flashes - her tear soaked face, the razor in her pale hand, her blood sprayed up the walls.

 

“No,” he slurs.

 

Stiles repeats it over and over again until a nurse comes to his side with a needle.  He says it more firmly as it’s lowered to his arm, dangerously close to his skin.

 

“Don’t,” he manages.

 

“Shh, you’ll feel better soon.”

 

More tears well up in the corners of his eyes and he wants to struggle, but the nurse plunged the needle into his vein then.  The meds make quick work of making the room go fuzzy - the nurse’s dead expression twisting into a monster with glowing eyes and fangs.

 

_“I think we’re going to like it here, Stiles.  Mommy did.”_

  
Stiles gladly lets the darkness drag him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments are welcome :)


	10. Traffic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek deals with the previous nights memories, as always, in the worst way possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to the warnings listed in the tags before reading.

When Danny picks him up this time, he doesn’t say he’s an idiot - he doesn’t say anything at all.  They hadn’t arrested him last night because he hadn’t put up a fight.  Derek idly wonders if he’s angry he had to bail him out, but doesn’t ask him about it.  They sit in awkward silence as his friend drives through downtown towards his apartment.  When they park, Derek unbuckles and reaches for the door, but Danny’s hand on his arm stops him.  Though it was barely a touch, Derek still flinches out of reach.

 

“Derek…” Danny mutters.  His brows furrow as he tries to find his words.  “Will you tell me what that was about last night?”

 

When Derek doesn’t answer for a long time, the boy shifts in his seat to fully face him.  He doesn’t know what he wants him to say.  Once again, he’d freaked out because someone got too close and put their hands on him.

 

“I haven’t seen you do something like that since you worked upstairs with me - when those women...well, you know,” he mutters.

 

Yes, he remembers that night - his final night on the stage.  A rowdy group of women had come to the club for a bachelorette party.  The bride-to-be had requested Derek specifically for a private lap dance.  He didn’t normally do those, seeing as how close he’d be to the customer, but she’d offered triple the asking price.  Derek had walked into the room and did his best to show her a good time.  The music had been at max volume, so he hadn’t heard the door open, or the clicking of their heels.

 

They had ambushed him.  It was 15 women against one man in a secluded soundproof room that wouldn’t be checked on by a bouncer until the time ran out.  He’d instantly panicked and tried to leave, but they blocked the exit.   He was then pushed onto the grimy floor, held down by five laughing drunk women.

 

The women took turns as his body reacted again and again to their touches.  It was the bride-to-be that had been the worst.  She had long nails and got off on using them.  It was too much of a reminder and all he could see were _her_ light brown eyes staring down at him, her strong hands clamping down on his waist.

 

He hadn’t even screamed - had just laid there, resigned to his fate.  Derek had blacked out at some point and came to with blood on his hands.  It hadn’t been the women he hurt, but the bouncer when he came to say their time was up.  The man had quickly restrained him, which only made him fight harder.

 

It had been Kali who got through to him, though he’s not sure he should call it that.  She had simply ran her fingers over his bare chest until the feeling of strange hands on him had once again immobilized him.

 

Last night had been the first time he’d been back.  But it hadn’t been those women he remembered as the man had groped at him.  It was _him_ \- it was always him.

 

“Oh fuck, I shouldn’t have brought that up,” Danny says a bit frantically.

 

It takes him a moment to realize his heart is pounding, hands shaking, and breath short.  Sweat is beading at his brow and he can’t move.

 

“Derek, I’m sorry,” Danny says.  “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

 

No, he’s not, he’s never been okay.  Unsaid words clog his throat and push at his tongue, urging him to let them out.  But he can’t say any of them, he can’t tell his friend why he’d freaked out in the club, why he flinches anytime the boy touches him, why he gets violent when panicking.

 

Derek quickly gets himself under control, not liking being so vulnerable in front of him.  His cracked rib flares up, making it easier to hold his breath and let it out slowly - steadying it.

 

“It isn’t just that, is it?” Danny asks quietly.  “You were like this before that happened, it just got worse after.  Plus...I mean, that x-ray.  Your old injuries,” he says, shaking his head.

 

The words that had so badly wanted out vanish to the back of his mind again.

 

“It’s nothing.  I’m fine,” he mutters.

 

The silence is tense as Danny stares at him and Derek can’t look at him.  He knows the kid cares for some reason, but he just can’t say it.  He wouldn’t even know where to start.

 

“Yeah, okay,” the boy says with a deep sigh.  He turns back to the wheel, gazing out the windshield.  “See you after the fight?”

 

Derek nods and before anything else can be said, he opens the door and quickly gets out.  He doesn’t look back, though he can hear the car idle as his friend waits for him to get safely inside.  When he shuts the lobby door closed, he leans against it, letting out the air he’d been holding in again.  With the barrier between them, he can finally let the tension in his body drain away.  He hated it when Danny tried to pry information out of him.  Derek would never answer and then the kid would get this horribly concerned and sad expression on his face.

 

He hates himself for hurting him, hates himself for everything he’s done, hates himself for not being strong enough to just kill himself and set his friend free of his drama.

 

The pain in his stomach is the only thing that pulls him out of his head.  It prompts him into going back out the door and stepping into the morning light.  He silently makes his way down the street.  Derek almost turns back when he sees the hoard of hookers on the corner, but the rumbling of his stomach forces him to continue.  He keeps his head down, hands jammed in his pockets.

 

Derek isn’t surprised when they try to get his attention, isn’t surprised by the hand that tries to graze his arm.  He is, however, surprised when a short woman in a tight blue dress and strappy black heels steps into his path.  Derek tries to move around her, but she’s surprisingly persistent.  He gets a glimpse of her face and even he can admit she’s cute, but the way she’s blocking him is making him extremely nervous.

 

He mutters that he’s not interested, making her let out a high pitched giggle.  When she gets closer, he carefully puts his hands out, trying to ward her off.  He’s probably twice her size and yet her predatory grin as him backing away.  She’s so small that she even ducks beneath his grip and comes to slither up his front, one of her hand’s snaking around the back of his neck.

 

Her lips brush his ear as she whispers, “I could show you a real good time, honey.”

 

There’s a hand cupping him, making him want to scream.  He holds it back and then shoves her roughly away.  She yelps, teeters on her heels, and then goes down hard.  The other women gasp and a few rush to help her, shooting heated glares his way, but Derek runs before they can retaliate.

 

As he runs further down the street, their outraged words reach his ears, making the guilt that’d rushed up more potent.  He shouldn’t have pushed her.  She had been persistent, but he didn’t need to be so rough.  He could have easily removed her hands and continued walking.

 

Derek stumbles to a halt as he reaches the highway, bending to lean against his knees, stomach cramping as he dry heaves.  He can still feel the phantom touch of her hand on his crotch and the softness of her skin against his palms as he pushed her.  His body continues to try to empty his stomach, but there’s nothing in it to throw up.  After a few deep breaths, he straightens back up, gaze travelling over the light traffic driving along the highway.

 

Instead of waiting like he normally does, Derek steps out onto the road without looking for cars speeding in his direction.  Nothing happens as he crosses the first lane, a horn blares on the second, a driver yells something out their window on the third, and a car swerves to avoid him as he passes the fourth and final lane.

 

As he steps safely onto the adjoining road, he glances back at the traffic.  He should have been hit, but he wasn’t.  With a heavy sigh, he jams his hands in his pockets again, and continues to the closest restaurant.  His leather jacket slowly warms him as it sucks up the heat from the rising sun.

 

Loud music drifts to him as he comes up on the local radio station.  They play rock music on Thursdays and even though it’s only around seven in the morning, they’re already in full swing.

 

He recognizes the song.  It’s something Jungle liked to play whenever they had a night where only the female strippers would be on the stage.  Derek had tended to avoid those nights at all costs and the song was only a small reason.

 

_“She likes to shake her ass, she grinds it to the beat.  She likes to pull my hair, when I make her grind her teeth.  I like to strip her down, she’s naughty to the end.  You know what she is, no doubt about it, she’s a bad, bad girlfriend!”_

 

Derek pretends the shiver that goes through him is from the chilly morning air.

 

Though he’s tempted to cross again, he sticks to this side of the street, knowing the police department is coming up next.  If he knew of a better way to get to the restaurant, he wouldn’t hesitate to take it, but this was it.  Derek picks up his pace, hoping no police officers are milling about outside-

 

When he glances up, he curses as he sees two off-duty officers heading right for him.  It’s that young one with the bright green eyes and his partner.  Derek keeps his head down and hopes they don’t-

 

“Hale?”

 

He ignores the man’s call, not wanting to talk to them.  To his dismay, the two of them jog across the street and catch up to him on the sidewalk.  He knows that this kind of thing doesn’t happen in the city.  The police don’t try to chat with you after a night behind their bars, even if you _are_ a regular offender.  But in Beacon Hills, it’s small enough that this type of thing is actually _normal_.  He hates it.

 

“How’s the hangover, kid?” Graeme asks with a small chuckle.

 

She isn’t all that bad, if he’s being honest.  He still dislikes her because of her profession, but if he had to pick someone for arresting him, he’d pick her every time.  She knew to keep her hands off unless he was out of control.

 

“Fine,” he mutters.

 

They chat with each other as they all walk down the street, most likely heading for the same place.  It’s not as popular with the cops, but it is the closest to the precinct.  The young man throws a question or comment his way every now and then, but Derek only grunts at him.  He really didn’t feel like making small talk.

 

When they reach the Beacon Grille, he quickly puts some space between himself and the cops, heading straight for the bar.  They didn’t serve the heavy stuff until around lunch time, but he could still get a Bloody Mary with his breakfast.  The bartender immediately recognized him and the drink was waiting for him even before he sat down.  They quickly put in an order for a plain toasted bagel as well.

 

Derek gulped down half his drink by the time the bagel was delivered to him.  The waitress nodded solemnly at him, her gaze tracking his beverage intake just as she always does.  He can’t really remember, but he thinks he went to school with her.  There’s a high chance she knows his entire story, but he can’t bring himself to care.  As long as she doesn’t ask how he’s doing, he’ll deal with the pitying stares.

 

The two cops had taken seats by the window and they’re sipping at black coffees as they chat.  Derek watches them for a moment, a rare burning of jealousy coursing through him.  They looked so content with each other, so comfortable to just sit and talk about their work.  With a sigh, he turns back to his bagel.  He never puts anything on it because hardly anything ever tastes good to him anymore.  Even the toasted bread is starting to churn in his stomach, but he knows he has to eat it.

 

The last time he didn’t eat at all during the day before a fight he got dizzy in the cage and ended up losing for the first time ever.  That had been about 4 months ago when he first started fighting.  Deucalion had sat him down and asked what happened, but Derek couldn’t tell him.  He’d been too embarrassed.  How could he tell someone, let alone his boss, that he’d lost the fight because he’d been starving himself for the past three days?  Besides, he can’t speak to Deucalion without remembering when they first met and not wanting to vomit.

 

Shoving the last bite into his mouth, he’s satisfied that the hunger pains have faded.  He’d finished his first drink and is halfway through his second.  He’s munching on chips as he sucks down his fifth.  The lunch rush is filling in as he’s frantically downing his third glass of scotch.

 

It isn’t until he’s grabbed the bartender by the shirt, demanding another even though the man had wanted to cut him off two drinks ago, that he finally becomes aware of his surroundings.  His senses had dulled with the alcohol, his hearing filtering in only a drum of the noise in the restaurant.

 

He thinks he’s telling the bartender that if he doesn’t keep serving him he’ll set the place on fire, but the confused expression he gets is telling him his words are badly slurring.  The fact that he thought of that particular threat first has him letting the man go and stumbling back.  He falls over his stool and the familiar waitress comes to help him up.  Derek shoves her away once he’s on his feet and then hastily makes his way out the door.

 

When he can hear people yelling for him to stop, he starts running.  He’s not sure why, but panic is making its way up his throat and his vision is blurring.

 

The next time he blinks, wind is whipping at him as cars fly by.  He’s standing in the middle of the highway, drivers cursing and blaring their horns.  He still hasn’t been hit.

 

“Hale!”

 

In the distance he can see someone - or maybe two someone’s - running out into the heavy traffic.  Derek isn’t quite sure what happens next, but he does know that he still doesn’t get run over.  He figured karma would have struck by now.

 

* * *

He can’t breathe, something is blocking his airway.  Coughing seems to help, but then the substance is back.  Someone is yelling and then he’s being pulled onto his side.  His stomach clenches and his throat burns as the vomit stops going back down his throat, stops choking him.  Derek coughs and heaves all the while someone’s hand stays on his shoulder, probably trying to soothe him.  But it’s not soothing.  He wants it off.

 

Derek tries to tell the person that, but all that comes out is a groan.  With his words not coming out, he curls up as tight as he can as a deep chill wracks through him.  He prays to whatever deity is supposedly watching over them all to just let him die.  The cracked rib is throbbing in his side, making his back ache so much he can barely move.  His hand is numb, which he’s relieved about.

 

When the alcohol - and most likely the bagel - is out of his stomach, he pulls his arms closer to his body to try to stop the pain.  He doesn’t bother trying to open his eyes because he doesn’t want to know where he is, doesn’t want to know who’s around him, doesn’t want to know anything.

 

* * *

Derek must have passed out again because the next time he’s aware that he is, in fact, still alive he’s blinking his eyes open, a dim light surrounding him.  The bars around him let him know that he’s back in the police department, which figures.  Derek might as well declare this place his home.

 

His rib twinges as he slowly sits up, his head pounding along with it.  Looking around, he sees that the sun has set and it’s fully dark outside.  Cursing, he swings his legs over the side, lurches unsteadily to his feet and sways towards the bars.  He’s startled to see the young deputy standing outside of his cage, arms crossed and lips pulled in a tight frown.

 

“What time is it?” Derek rasps.

 

Fuck, his mouth tasted like something died in it.  By the way the deputy’s face twitches, Derek figures his breath must smell like it too.

 

“Almost 9,” he says.

 

Derek tries not to panic, but his heart flutters and his stomach rolls again.  He’s tempted to lie back down and pretend he never got an answer just to avoid the outcome.  The list of rules for The Den is short, but they’re enforced.  One of the most prominent is ‘Do not be late and/or not show up for a match.  You will automatically forfeit your winnings and must report to Deucalion for further instruction’.

 

He had never personally broke this - or any - of the rules, but he’d heard stories from people who have.  It’s not something he wants to endure.

 

“Let me out,” he demands.

 

“No.”

 

“No?  Have I been arrested?”

 

By the man’s silence, he knows that he hasn’t.

 

“Then why can’t I leave?”

 

The man sighs and leans against the desk behind him, arms still crossed over his chest.  He continues to stare for a few minutes, making Derek fidget.

 

“You can go when I believe you’re no longer a danger to others,” he says.  Then with a frown adds “Or yourself.”

 

Derek scoffs and rolls his eyes.  He wants to cross his arms to match his intimidating posture, but can’t seem to force his muscles to cooperate.

 

“Let me tell you what I’ve learned in the last 24 hours.  I was called to Jungle about a man - and this is a direct quote ‘a drunk man who’s lost his mind and is attacking people on the dance floor’.  Now, when I got there, you resisted arrest and kept fighting, therefore a fellow deputy had to taze you.  I tried to question you last night, but you were extremely intoxicated and told me to fuck off when I asked about the marks on your body.”

 

Derek can’t hold back the flinch at his words and quickly lowers his gaze to the floor, not able to look at him.

 

“You were right, that was none of my business.  But then this afternoon I was called about an intoxicated man standing in the middle of the highway.  Of course, I had my suspicions since I saw how hammered you were getting at the bar, but I hadn’t expected you to collapse when my partner and I grabbed hold of you.  Don’t get me wrong, Derek - can I call you Derek?”

 

He raises a heated glare to the deputy.  All he wanted was to be out of this cell and not fucking talking about any of this.

 

“I’m not complaining because this is all part of my job.  I’m just trying to explain that I - and my partner - are concerned about this destructive behavior,” he says.  The man steps closer to the cage, prompting Derek to nervously step back.  “Derek, I really want you to be honest with me here.  This afternoon, when you walked out onto the highway, were you trying to kill yourself?” he asks quietly.

 

Derek has never once been asked that question - not by anyone.  No one seemed to care if he lived or died, especially not himself.  He didn’t see why this random officer cared either.  They didn’t even know each other.  After a long few seconds of silence, Derek decides to ignore the question altogether.

 

“I have to get to work.”

 

The deputy stares for a few more long seconds that feel like hours.  Derek waits for him to unlock the cell, but he doesn’t.

 

“Once I determine that you’re sober enough to leave, then and only then, will I let you out.”

 

Derek can’t _not_ roll his eyes at that.  When the man pulls out a breathalyzer, he knows he’s truly fucked.  He’s sure they both know that he’s still drunk because he can’t seem to let go of the bars.  If he did, he’s sure he’ll fall down.  After all, the floor is moving and shifting beneath his feet.  His stomach rolls again and he doesn’t have time nor knows how to stop it when his throat starts to burn.  Derek lurches forward as more alcohol makes its way out of him, splashing onto the floor.  This is the second time today that he’s found himself vomiting onto this concrete floor in this small cell.  For a moment he seriously wonders what the fuck he’s doing with his life before the thought makes him hope the alcohol just kills him.

 

He can hear the deputy curse and unlock the cell.  Derek is surprised - and slightly horrified - to feel hands on his shoulders.  The man does exactly what he did this morning, his hand rubbing along his back as if trying to comfort him.  He still doesn’t understand why this guy is giving a shit.  Furthermore, he really wishes he’d stop touching him because it’s pissing him off.

 

Derek turns and tries to push the man away, but he sways too much to have any kind of effect.  The deputy simply grabs his shoulders again and tries to lead him back to the bed.  He provides a bottle of water again, which Derek takes and sips at.

 

“Like I said, once you’re sober, you’re free to go.”

  
He doesn’t even argue, simply flops further onto the hard bed and closes his eyes.  At this point he didn’t even _want_ to go to the club.  He’s sure nothing good awaits him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I need to list any other warning tags or add details here, don't be afraid to comment about it.


	11. Not Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's no need to worry. You'll come to learn we're all friends here at Eichen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Flashbacks, Violent Thoughts

_“Take care of your father, sweetie.”_

 

_“Mom?”_

 

_“I’m sorry.”_

 

_“Mom!”_

 

Stiles jolts awake, the phantom wet drops of his mother’s blood still covering his face.  Taking even deep breaths, he sits up on the bed and looks around.  This part wasn’t a nightmare then.  He really was locked up in Eichen.

 

“I failed them,” he whispers to himself.

 

_“Of course you did.  That’s what you do, Stiles.  You fail the ones you love,”_ It says.

 

Stiles ignores It and focuses on his surroundings.  He doesn’t get far when he tries to move off the bed, tight restraints around his wrists and ankles keeping him in place.

 

_She smiles up at him, a hand coming to cup his cheek.  Her wrists are dark purple._

 

Shaking his head, he eyes the belts, wondering if there’s a way to pry them off.  A part of him knows it’s useless, having watched his mother struggle day in and day out to free herself with no success.  Another larger part tells him that there must be a way, that he needs to escape, that he can’t be here.

 

The door swings open, silent on its hinges.  At least something has changed in this place.

 

“Stiles, you’re awake,” a woman says.  She smiles at him and he nods.

 

“I know you,” he mutters.

 

The woman nods and comes to stand at his bedside.

 

“Yes, I had just started working here when your mother was admitted,” she replies.

 

He hadn’t liked her back then.  He’d been afraid of her, afraid of her too calm attitude, afraid of the way his mother screamed profanities at her, at the way she tried to hurt her, dig her nails into the woman’s flesh.

 

Or maybe he was simply afraid of his mother.

 

Stiles shakes his head again, dislodging that thought.  It hadn’t been her fault.  She’d been sick.  She couldn’t help that.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

He glares as way of an answer.  Stiles has never trusted her and he’s not going to start now.  She doesn’t pester him further about the state he’s in.  The woman glances at him briefly before unlocking his restraints and then standing back to scribble on his chart.

 

“Do you know why you’re here, Stiles?” she asks without looking up from his chart.

 

“Because the BHPD is full of corrupt cops?”

 

The woman sighs heavily and scowls at him.

 

“No.  You are here because the Sheriff - a dear friend of mine - is concerned that you’ve suffered a break with reality,” she says.

 

Stiles huffs and idly scratches at his face.  “A break with reality,” he repeats.  He figures his tone conveys what he thinks about that.

 

She nods seriously and looks back to him.

 

“I have to say, after reading through his statement and already knowing your family's medical history, I’d have to agree.  We’ll be holding you for a 72 hour psych evaluation until we determine a proper course of action.”

 

“You can’t just keep me here.  I’m not crazy,” he protests.

 

“No one is saying that.  That’s not a term we approve of here.  What we’re saying is that we want to make sure you’re healthy before we let you out.”

 

Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes at her fake cordial tone.  The nurse chooses to ignore his attitude and simply finishes with his chart.  She then swings open the door to his room and motions for him to follow her.  All too familiar screams echo down the hallway, making him hesitate to leave the room.  The nurse doesn’t wait for him or urge him to move faster, she simply glances over her shoulder as she walks further down the hall.

 

Not wanting to be left alone, he reluctantly follows.  In the 7 years since he’s been back, Eichen is almost exactly how he remembers it.  The hallways all open up into the main lobby, which connects to the counseling areas, which lead to the padded cells.  His mother had been locked in those for a short period of time, but there’s no visitation allowed for those rooms, so he’s never seen inside.  He hopes he’ll still never see it.

 

The nurse brings him to a large open area that he remembers from childhood as well.  He slows by the ledge that looks out on the park behind the hospital, fingers catching on the initials that were carved into the stone 9 years ago.  He’d used his mother’s keys that the nurses and security guards demanded she leave behind.  ‘A weapon’ they’d called it.  Stiles, at the age of 7, didn’t understand what that meant.  ‘Why would someone hurt my mom with keys?’ he’d thought.  He didn’t realize they meant _she_ might use them as a weapon.

 

“Stiles?”

 

Looking up, he sees the nurse staring back at him, an uncharacteristic look of sympathy on her face.

 

“Sorry, just...been a long time,” he mutters.

 

The woman nods and motions for him to continue down the hall, her gaze landing briefly on the initials before staring at him again.  Stiles moves on, not wanting to hear whatever she’s considering saying.  She must take the hint because she leads him into one of the recreation rooms.

 

“You can relax in here while you wait for your therapy session.  You’re not permitted to return to your room unless escorted by a nurse or doctor.  Feel free to play any of the games or puzzles or listen to the music.  There’s a set playlist, so don’t bother trying to change it.  Lunch is in an hour, after which meds will be distributed, and then your first one-on-one.  Since this is only a 72-hour hold until the doctors determine whether you need to stay, you won’t have any mandatory group sessions.  If you need anything, the nurse’s station is around the corner.  If there is an emergency of any kind, press the panic button,” she says, pointing.

 

“Yeah, I know where it is,” he mutters, eyes skittering away from it.

 

The nurse sighs again before walking away.  Stiles struggles to keep his gaze away from the glaring red button as he flops down into a chair at a table where another boy is concentrating very hard on a puzzle.

 

“Need help?” Stiles asks.  He figures if he just keeps himself busy for the next 3 days, then it won’t be as awful.

 

To his surprise, the boy snaps his head up with a giant grin on his face, his cheeks round and pink.

 

“Sure,” he says excitedly.

 

Stiles raises a brow, but then shrugs and digs into the puzzle.  It isn’t five minutes before the kid starts rambling about some dystopian book series he’s into and Stiles tries to follow along, but he jumps from topic to topic.  He reminds Stiles a little of himself right after his mother passed.  If it was too quiet in a room, he’d start rambling about anything and everything - from why colors are the colors they are to the new superhero movie that came out - just to shut out the screams in his head.  School became difficult, especially during tests or reading time in younger grades.  He’d be doing his work quietly and all of a sudden there’d be red all over the page and It would be telling him the cries he was hearing was his mother, that he had to save her.

 

Even now, he’s got his fingers drumming a rhythm against the tabletop because the rest of the room behind him is too quiet and all he can hear is the ticking of the clock under the other boy’s droning voice.

 

_“You know, there’s a pencil right by your hand, you could easily pick it up and silence that stupid little-”_

 

“So what’s your name?” Stiles asks.

 

By how the boy startles and looks around, he’s guessing the question was a little too loud.  Stiles didn’t care, he just didn’t want to listen to It.

 

“I’m Oliver.  Thought I said that already.  Did I not say that already?  What was I even talking about?” he ask rapidly.

 

“That book series about the sun flares or something,” he replies.  “Hand me that piece?”

 

Oliver hands over the piece he wanted so he can place it in the puzzle.

 

“No, it’s just The Flare, it’s a sickness and the main character…” Oliver trails off, brows pinched as he stares at him.

 

“What?”

 

“You know, you kind of remind me of him, the guy in the book.”

 

“Yeah?  How so?”

 

“Kind of gloomy, kind of withdrawn, but could totally be a badass if given the chance,” he says, grin returning.

 

Stiles snorts and just shakes his head.  The kid hardly knew him and it was obvious by the description he just gave.  The first two, maybe, but the badass part?  No, that wasn’t him.  He’s the guy that runs from his problems and fails at everything no matter what.

 

The other boy suddenly goes silent as his gaze lands on something behind Stiles’ shoulder.  Cautiously turning, Stiles jumps when he finds a girl standing only a foot away, staring down at him with too wide eyes.  Her hair is in tangles and standing on all ends as if she’s been pulling at it.  Stiles gets up to put more space between them, but she continues to stare.

 

“Uh, hi?” he tries.

 

She sighs and nods, but still isn’t blinking.

 

“I have a message for you,” she says seriously.

 

“For me?” he asks nervously.  The girl nods and takes a step closer, prompting him to take one back.

 

“She says…” the girl’s eyes tick to the side as if listening to someone.  “She says not to listen to it.”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t listen to it.”

 

“Don’t listen to what?”

 

She continues to stare at him, her expression becoming grimmer by the second.

 

“Don’t listen to it.  You’ll fall.  You’ll fall into it.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

A part of him wants to say she’s just babbling nonsense, but another part is worried that somehow she knows about It.  She couldn’t be talking about that, there’s no way she could know-

 

“Don’t listen to it.  You’ll fall.  You’ll fall where she fell.  You’ll fall into it.”

 

“Meredith, no one has time for your nonsense!” Oliver snaps suddenly.

 

The girl doesn’t even pay him any attention, keeping her gaze on Stiles.  The longer it takes him to understand, the more panicked she seems to get.

 

“Come on, just ignore her, she’s crazy,” Oliver says, trying to pull him away.  Stiles wants to laugh at that because they’re in a nut house, according to the doctors, everyone in here is crazy.

 

The boy seems insistent and Stiles will admit this girl’s - Meredith’s - warnings are making him extremely jittery, like he wants to run and run for a long time.  As he turns his back to leave for another rec room, her voice follows him.

 

“Don’t listen to the void, Stiles.  You’ll fall into the shadows.”

 

He almost gives himself whiplash from turning around so fast, her words echoing through the room.  When he looks, he sees the ends of her gray sweater swirling through the doorway as she leaves.

 

“Wait!”

 

Stiles ignores Oliver’s shouts for him to come back, rushing out into the hallways to chase after her.  He continues to only get glimpses of her sweater around corners and keeps after it.  He finds her sitting on a bed in a room with a window looking in, her hands in her lap and facing away from him.  Stiles is about to go in when a man comes to his side to peer in at her as well.

 

“A unique little thing, isn’t she?” he asks, mouth twisting into a smirk.  “Stiles, is it?”

 

He jerks at that, not expecting this random stranger to know him.

 

“There’s no need to worry.  You’ll come to learn we’re all friends here at Eichen,” he says and finally turns to him with a slightly manic grin.

 

His eyes are bright blue, his hair a tousled sandy brown.  He stares holes into Stiles for a few seconds before entering the room.  The man stands in front of the girl, bringing his hand up to cup her face and stroke her cheek.  He looks over her wild hair at Stiles and smirks.

 

Slowly backing away from the window, Stiles decides he doesn’t want to talk to her, doesn’t want to get involved in whatever the fuck is going on here.  All he wants is to get out and get help to his friends - somehow.  He rushes back to the rec room, but is intercepted by one of the orderlies.  Stiles curses when he realizes who it is.

 

“Well if it isn’t the littlest Stilinski.  I knew I’d see you again one way or another,” the man laughs.

 

Stiles sighs and glares at the wall.  He hates this fucking place and if he could burn it to the ground with everyone in it, he would.

 

_“That’s more like it, sweetheart,”_ It says.

 

He almost tells it to shut up before remembering he’s standing in front of the man that kept hauling his mother off to the padded cells with a grin on his face.

 

“You alright there?  Not hearing voices already are you?” he asks with a chuckle.

 

“No,” Stiles says, teeth gritted.

 

Brunski huffs in amusement before roughly grabbing his arm, but Stiles tries to rip free of him.  The man tilts his head in that warning glare he always gave his mother and it just makes Stiles fight harder.  He’s about to start screaming when the man that somehow knew his name strolls into the hall.

 

“There a problem here?” he asks calmly.

 

“Not any that concerns you,” Brunski says lowly.

 

The blue-eyed man just ticks a brow at him.

 

“No?”

 

“No, it’s not.  Go back to your room, Peter,” the orderly commands.

 

In an instant, the slightly amused expression on the man’s - Peter’s - face darkens and he’s lunging, grabbing hold of Brunski and slamming him face first into the wall.

 

“I think you better adjust your tone,” he says quietly to the back of the guy’s head.  “Now, I asked if there was a problem here.”

 

Brunski huffs and puffs against the wall for a moment, eyes flicking to Stiles before a deep scowl pulls his lips down.

 

“No, no problem,” he grumbles.

 

“Fantastic,” Peter says cheerily.  He then turns to Stiles, gaze giving him an uncomfortable once over before smiling.  “You’re free to go, Stiles,” he says in that soft tone.

 

Stiles doesn’t hesitate to run back down the hall and into the rec room.  He curls up on the couch and wonders over and over again what the fuck just happened.

  
All he knows is that he needs to get the fuck out of this place as soon as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments/questions are welcome.
> 
> Also, I apologize if that was a total Malia fake-out. Unfortunately she won't make an appearance until much later in this story. And I know parts of this chapter seemed super weird, but this is still a Human AU, therefore there's always an explanation.


	12. Or Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Promise me you're not about to do something stupid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please refer to warning tags.

_“Derek, get back!”_

 

_“No!”_

 

_Her blood spills onto the ground, soaking into the mud._

 

_“Laura!”_

 

_His laughter bellows around the forest, his hands slick with red, the knife glinting in the moonlight._

 

Hands are holding him down, cupping his face, stroking his hair.  Derek’s eyes are wide as he looks around, seeing her slack face staring up at him, her guts pouring out of the deep slash in her midsection.  She can’t be dead, she can’t leave him, he needs her, he promised her.

 

In the distance, he can hear himself screaming, but he can’t stop.  He can’t stop because she’s not supposed to be dead, not after everything they’ve been through, not after they promised each other.

 

He killed her, just ripped the knife through her stomach like it was nothing, like he didn’t care he was killing his own niece.  Derek screams until his throat hurts, screams until no more sound comes out, screams until tears are streaming down his face, until the pain is gone and he’s cold and numb.

 

When Derek’s vision turns from the dark of night to a dim lighting, he tries to bolt upright, tries to get free of the hands holding him down.

 

“Derek, lie still, you’ve hurt yourself,” someone says.

 

He can’t lie still, he needs to move, he needs to get out of here.  He needs a fucking drink.  The hands are still trying to restrain him, still groping and gripping at his jacket, at his arms, his hands.  The terror is morphing into frustration, the frustration to anger.

 

“Jesus fuck, get off me,” he grumbles, pushing at them roughly.

 

They back off slightly, letting him sit up.  His hand is stinging and when he looks, he sees he’d dug his nails deep into his palm.  The one that’s not already in a cast, that is.  One of the officers - the young guy again - reaches for his hand with a towel.  Derek moves out of reach and the man sighs.

 

“Just trying to help.”

 

“I don’t need your help, so back off,” Derek snaps.  “Am I free to go now?  I am clearly sober.”

 

The man narrows his eyes stubbornly, but his partner - Graeme - steps between them and nods to Derek.

 

“Yes, you are free to go.  I suggest you lay off the bottle for at least a few days,” she adds.

 

Derek wants to respond about how she’s not his fucking mother or sister, but clamps down on it, not wanting to return to the nightmare.  The young deputy leaves the cell with a heavy sigh and retrieves a plastic bag full of Derek’s possessions.

 

When Graeme holds out the towel for him to take, he snatches it and wraps it up.  He doesn’t thank her and she doesn’t ask to be thanked.  She simply motions for him to follow her to the main holding area, where Parrish hands him the bag and his cell.

 

“It’s been ringing nonstop all night,” he mutters before turning away to seemingly do paperwork.

 

Derek frowns as well when he realizes he actually feels kind of bad for being a dick to the guy.  Deputy Graeme is giving him some seriously judgmental side-eye, clearly telling him that he _should_ feel bad about.

 

He almost says something - not an apology, never that - but it doesn’t matter because he finally registers what the guy said.  His cell was ringing all night.  He is so fucking screwed.  With a curse, he glances down to his phone, lighting up the screen.

 

As he reads, he makes his way out of the precinct and into the morning sun.  He stands in the shade of the entryway and scrolls through his missed calls and messages.  Six missed calls and a dozen texts from the twins, a missed call from Danny, plus a few calls from an unknown number - and the most daunting of all, a call from his boss.  He has 7 voicemails, but he reads through the texts first.

 

Most of them are along the lines of ‘where the fuck are you’ with threats thrown in.  He takes a deep breath before dialing into his voicemail.

 

 **Ethan** : “Derek, I really hope you’re on your way.  The fight starts in less than an hour.”

 **Aiden:** “Did you suddenly turn chicken?  Where the fuck are you?”

 **Ethan:** “You really fucked up.  You have no idea how much you fucked up.”

 **Aiden:** “Don’t think for one second you can hide from us.  We will find you and you _will_ report to Duke.”

 

Derek runs an anxious hand through his hair, blowing out a harsh breath.  He listens to the rest of the messages, wondering if he should just fucking skip town.

 

 **Unknown:** “Hey, it’s Braeden.  I got your number from the contact tree.  I know you don’t give a shit about my advice, but I’d turn yourself in sooner rather than later.  It’s only going to be worse if you wait.”

 

Derek frowns at the message, not liking the fact that she now has his number, and also that she thinks they’re on good enough terms to call him at all let alone give advice.

 

 **Danny:** “Derek, it’s me.  I don’t know what you did, but you need to fix it, okay?  The twins cornered me outside the club and asked me where you were.  I didn’t know and, man, they were _really_ pissed.  Like ‘followed me all the way home and staked out at my place all night’ pissed.  I am freaking the fuck out, so call me.”

 

“Fuck,” he mutters.

 

 **The Duke:** “Derek, my little wolf - _our_ little wolf…”

 

He closes his eyes tight to drown out the phrase, trying to keep his breathing steady.

 

“I trust you have a good reason for missing the fight.  You know how much I hate rule breakers.  If you don’t show by noon tomorrow, we’ll hurt your little friend - what is his name?  Ah yes, Danny, the dancer.  Noon tomorrow, Derek.”

 

Derek stares at the screen, the automated voice telling him that’s the end of the messages.  He checks the time and almost screams when he realizes it’s quarter of.  The Den is all the way across town.  Even if he had a car, he’d be cutting it close.  Derek frantically looks around for a bus or cab, but the street is quiet just as it always is.  He can feel the panic threatening to bring him down and he wants to hit something.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  Danny wasn’t supposed to be dragged into his shit like this.

 

“Hale?”

 

The voice brings him out of his head, finally realizing that his breathing was dangerously close to hyperventilating.  The young deputy is standing a few feet away with that stupid concerned expression on his face again.

 

“What?” he snaps - or tries to.  It came out a little more breathlessly than he meant it to.

 

The man sighs and seems to be deliberating something.  Eventually, he nods towards his cruiser parked on the street.

 

“You need a ride home?” he asks.

 

Derek can’t help but stare at him.  He still doesn’t understand why he’s being so nice, why the fuck he even cares.  Glancing at the cruiser, he bites his lip nervously.  If he showed up with a cop, both he and Danny would be gunned down, no questions asked - and if he were late, they’d hurt the kid.

 

Then again, if he didn’t show up at all, he wouldn’t have to face any of it.  He could walk away right now, pack his measly belongings, and skip town.

 

_“It’s only going to be worse if you wait.”_

 

Though he didn’t like her and sure as hell didn’t trust her, she was right.  If he left town, it wouldn’t solve anything.  People have run before.  They never got very far.

 

“Yes,” he hears himself say.

 

The deputy nods and motions for him to get in.  Derek is slow to follow, still wondering what the fuck he’s doing.  Glancing at the time again spurs him into motion - ten minutes.  Inside the cruiser, Derek tries to keep a big gap between them.  Riding in a car with Danny was one thing, riding with a stranger is a completely different obstacle.

 

“Where to?” the man asks.

 

“Jungle.”

 

He gets a brow raised at the answer.

 

“Thought I was taking you home.”

 

“Well, you’re not.  You’re taking me to work, seeing as how I missed my shift,” Derek can’t help but snap.

 

The deputy sighs again, but doesn’t question him further.  As they pass by Derek’s street, his heart leaps into his throat when he sees another of Duke’s men hanging around outside his building.  He slumps low in his seat, unbuckling in the process.  The man by his side glances out the window and then at Derek, but doesn’t ask about it.  A few minutes later, however, he lets out a heavy sigh.

 

“Derek, are you in trouble?” he asks quietly.

 

“I was arrested twice in one week, so what do you think?”

 

“I didn’t mean with us,” he retorts.

 

Derek glares at him, not willing to tell him anything.

 

“Just keep driving.”

 

He does as told, though he looks none too happy about it.  Derek really doesn’t give a shit.  Seeing the time again, he curses and straightens back up in his seat.  They’re not even to the corner yet.

 

“Could you drive _any_ faster?”

 

“I’m doing the speed limit.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

The guy rolls his eyes and looks to him.

 

“I could turn the siren on, if you’d prefer.”

 

“No,” Derek says, panicked.  The man narrows his eyes and Derek takes a much needed breath before settling back into his seat.  “No sirens.  Just get me there.”

 

He couldn’t even imagine how bad that would be.  Police sirens right outside Jungle, right outside The Den.  Danny would be dead by the time he even stepped out of the car.  When they’re finally rounding the corner, Derek’s stomach churns when he sees Kali standing outside the club.

 

“Stop, stop,” he snaps.  The cop hits the brakes.  “Back up,” he adds.

 

“Why?  What’s-?”

 

“Just do it!”

 

The man obliges, but it’s too late.  Just before they’re covered by the corner again, he sees Kali turn at the sound of squealing brakes, sees the smirk on her face.  Derek is frozen for a moment as he tries to decide what to do.

 

“Derek, what’s happening?” the deputy asks calmly.

 

He shakes his head in answer.  The clock on the dash hits noon and Derek is scrambling out of the car.

 

“Hey, wait!”

 

When the guy starts to follow, he’s quick to stop him.

 

“No, you can’t follow me.”

 

“If you’re in trouble, I can’t just let you-”

 

“No!  You’ll just make it worse!”

 

“Make _what_ worse.  Derek-”

 

“Just _stay_ here, okay?  Don’t follow me, don’t turn the siren on, don’t do anything,” he says.  He turns to leave, but hesitates.  The deputy looks nervous, showing his young age.  “If I’m not back in an hour, _then_ you come in after me.  Not before.”

 

“You realize this goes against _all_ of my training, right?”

 

Derek sighs and stares him in the eyes, trying to make him understand.  The man winces and fiddles with his belt.

 

“Just promise me one thing,” the Deputy says.

 

“Depends on what it is.”

 

“Promise me you’re not about to do something stupid.   _Promise_ me that if I let you walk away right now, you’re not about to go into that club and hurt someone.  Or worse.”

 

He kind of wants to be offended and then almost laughs at himself.  He’s hurt plenty of people before, so it’s not that surprising this cop would think that.

 

“I-,” he starts.  He’s about to promise, but the word wouldn’t come out.  “I give you my word, I’m not about to hurt anyone.  Or worse,” he says, working around it.

 

The only people he’s ever made promises to are his sisters and he broke every single one of them.  He’s not about to break more.  The guy nods and Derek turns again to leave, but he walks backwards for a minute to ask something.

 

“Who are you?

 

“Parrish.  Deputy Parrish.”

 

With a nod, Derek finally leaves him to face whatever consequences await him.

 

**

 

Derek walks calmly towards Kali, trying to hide the shaking of his hands by jamming them in his jacket pockets.  She smirks again as he gets closer, her long dark hair flowing around her in the gentle breeze.  Once by her side, she grazes fingers along his chest just like always and leans in to whisper.

 

“Don’t think I didn’t see your new friend, honey.”

 

He ignores the comment and tries to step around her, but she blocks him.

 

“You’re late, by the way,” she says, her grin spreading.

 

Looking to the clock on his phone, he curses, shoving her hand off and rushing into the alley.  It’s past noon and his ears are ringing as he barges through the door and down the stairs.

 

“Danny!”

 

Derek doesn’t hesitate to throw Deucalion’s office door open.  Inside, he finds his friend on the floor, trying to ward off one of the twins.

 

“Stop!”

 

Aiden instantly lowers his fists and looks up at him, smiling wickedly.  His teeth are covered in blood, meaning Danny must have put up a good fight.  Derek rushes to him, pushing the other kid away.  Aiden tries to push back, but Derek shoves hard enough that he falls.

 

“Now, now, boys,” Deucalion says from his perch behind the desk.  Kali has joined him, taking up the space by his right side, just like always.

 

Derek crouches by his friend and helps him sit up.  He’s got some bruises along his jaw and a busted lip, but it doesn’t look too bad.  He got there before anything worse could be done.

 

The door opens again and the man that had been staking out his place strolls in.  He stares Derek down as he passes by to stand at Deucalion’s other side.  Nodding to himself, Derek stands, making sure Danny stays behind him.

 

“I’m here now.  You can let him go.”

 

Deucalion grins and taps his fingers along his cane.

 

“You know that’s not how this works.  You were late.  It’s past noon.”

 

“But-”

 

“No, no, my little wolf.”

 

Derek’s eyes close on their own accord, trying to block out the words.  Behind him, his friend grips his jacket, his hand shaking.  He hears someone moving around the room and knows who it is without having to look.  Heat washes over him just before a hand lands on his shoulder.  It slithers up his neck and into his hair, stroking his head.

 

“Now that you’re here, however, I’ll give you a choice,” Duke says quietly.  His breath smells of peppermint and Derek can’t hold back the whimper he lets out.  “That’s right, Derek.  You can either choose the exhausting punishment or you can choose _mine_.”

 

_I’ve brought a friend today, Derek.  He’s been dying to meet you._

 

“Choose wisely, my little cub.”

 

 _He’s **our**_ _little cub, now.  Aren’t you, Derek?_

 

Just as he feels himself giving in, his survival instincts telling him to submit, the hand on his jacket tugs harshly.  His eyes open and he sees his own reflection in his boss’ sunglasses.  He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s seen it, all he knows is that it keeps morphing from his present self to the kid he was back when he met Deucalion.

 

He’s not that kid anymore.

 

Derek slowly moves away from him, backing away from his touch.

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.  I’ll take them over you any day.”

 

His stomach quivers with fear at the soft chuckle the man emits.  The cane taps along the ground and he tilts his head.

 

“Suit yourself, cub.”

 

Derek doesn’t even have time to flinch before Aiden is tackling him to the ground.  His friend screams and tries to help him, but Ethan holds him back.  He says something to Danny and whatever it is, has the kid stopping his struggle.

 

Aiden slams his fist across Derek’s face.  He hisses as his bottom lip splits open, copper trickling into his mouth.  Grabbing onto the kid’s shoulders, he easily flips them and lands several punches to his midsection.

 

Arms wrap around him from behind and he tries to get free, but the person gets him in a lock.  His left arm immediately explodes in pain, but he knew it was coming.  He’s used the same move in the cage enough times to know.  He throws himself back, bringing the person down to the ground with him.  It gets him out of the lock and he rounds on the person - Ennis.  Derek backs away, never having had to face him before.  They’ve never fought in the cage and for good reason.  As strong as Derek is, Ennis is at least twice as strong.

 

Ennis moves fast and Derek is deflecting only half the blows coming at him and not landing any of his own.  He vaguely feels the hits to his midsection, too focused on using his one good arm to protect himself.  He uses the cast on that hand to his advantage, smashing it across Ennis’ face when he has the opportunity.  Pain ricochets up his arm from the hit, but he ignores it.  Derek goes for another blow to the guy’s face, not seeing the pole heading straight for him.

 

It crashes against his cast and Derek screams in agony.  He gets a brief glimpse of Kali wielding what looks like half a stripper pole before he’s trying to dodge it.  Left arm still useless from the shoulder being dislocated, he raises the casted one again.  He manages to deflect her attack, but the pain has him stumbling.  Kali brings it down on his arm this time, his elbow shattering and half his arm hanging uselessly.

 

Derek tries to bum rush her, but she’s even faster than Ennis, side-stepping him, hooking her foot on his, twisting and bringing him down.  He’s unaware that he’s screaming by this point as the pole slams against his side, the already broken rib cracking inside his chest.  When Kali proves to be relentless, all he can do is curl up and protect his head the best he can.

 

People are shouting in the background, but he barely hears it.  He wonders if the screaming is still him or someone else.  It takes several minutes for Derek to realize the blows have stopped, that the punishment is over.  For a moment, as he lies there, he thinks it wasn’t so bad, that he’d expected worse.

 

Then the numbness wears off and he’s trembling as pain radiates through his entire body.

 

“Oh my god.  Can you hear me?”

 

He doesn’t flinch at Danny’s touch this time as he helps him sit up.  Derek groans, no longer able to scream as his wounds protest.

 

“Okay, come on, I’m gonna get you out of here.”

 

Derek panics and tries to stop him.

 

“No, no.  Not s’fe, c’n’t lea…” he slurs.

 

“Shh, wolf.”

 

He whimpers at the voice in his ear and struggles to open his eyes.  Deucalion is by his side, fingers gently trailing over his jaw.  Derek can’t stop the tears from silently spilling over and his cheeks heat with shame. The man cups his face when he feels the drops, thumb stroking his cheek.

 

“My dear boy.  I gave you a choice.  I do wish you had chosen me instead.”

 

Derek almost wishes he had too - almost.  The man leans further into his space, his mouth by his ear.

 

“Rest up, little one.  You have a match tonight.  You don’t show, I won’t let you choose your punishment next time.”

 

He’s too tired and in too much pain to stop more tears from rolling down his face, to stop another whimper from escaping.  He feels that old instinct to beg for the man’s forgiveness rising up, but clamps down on it.  Though he doesn’t say the words, they play on a loop in his head.

 

_Please forgive me, I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me, I’ll do whatever you want._

 

_I know, cub, I know, you’re such a good boy for me._

 

_Such a good boy for me, Derek.  You’re not theirs, you’re mine.  You belong to Katie._

 

“Derek, you’re gonna be okay, come on.  Lean on me,” Danny murmurs.

 

He sucks in a breath as the kid wrestles Derek’s dislocated arm around his shoulders.  Derek thinks he might be sobbing at this point, but he can't really feel it.  He tries to walk with him, but his right ankle gives out the moment he puts weight on it.

 

“Ethan, leave them be,” Deucalion warns.

 

Derek glances up to see the boy hovering near them, hands twitching as if he was about to help.  He’s not surprised when the kid instantly obeys his boss.  There was a time Derek listened to his every word too.

 

His friend scrabbles for a way to help him and eventually just has to grab him under the arms and drag him.  He’s a little shocked Danny has the strength for it, though he shouldn’t be.  Derek focuses on that instead of the guilt that’s trying to push through everything else.

 

Danny is only involved in this because of him.  This is all his fault.

 

**

 

He’s dragged outside and Danny leans him up against the side of building.  He can hear the kid debating what to do, mumbling about not having his car.  Derek grunts to get his attention.

 

“I know, I’m gonna get help,” Danny says, hand on his good shoulder.

 

Derek grunts again to make him look at him this time.  He flicks his gaze to the corner a few times before the boy understands.  Walking down the street, he cautiously peeks his head around the corner before dashing back to Derek.

 

“A _cop_?  Are you insane?  That’s not a solution, Derek, that’s a problem.”

 

Derek tries to frown, but his mouth doesn’t want to cooperate.  He tries again, licking his lips and tasting the blood on them, before managing to get out one word.

 

“Help,” he rasps.

 

His friend’s face falls and he quickly crouches to start dragging him to the corner.

 

“You’re right, you’re right.  We need help.”

 

Derek hears him muttering to himself between panting breaths - about how he’s an underage stripper going to the cops.

 

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Danny whispers.

 

When at the corner, they don’t even have to wave Parrish over because he’s already running in their direction.  He fires questions at Danny as he bends to get a better look at Derek.

 

“Damnit, Hale, I _knew_ I shouldn’t have let you go.”

 

Derek licks his lips again and forces his mouth to work, ignoring the pain in his jaw.

 

“Di’n’t hurt an’body,” he wheezes.

 

The deputy gapes at him and shakes his head in what seems to be sadness.  When he reaches for the radio clipped to his shoulder, a surge of panic has Derek moving to stop him.

 

“No, n’c'ps,” he slurs.

 

“This was such a bad idea,” Danny mutters.

 

“Derek, you’re hurt.  You need medical attention.”

 

“No.”

 

“Yes, now-”

 

“No.”

 

Parrish groans and runs a hand down his face.  Hand still over his mouth, he stares at the two of them as he thinks.

 

“Fuck, fine, just get him in the car,” he orders.

 

Danny tries to drag him there, but the cop curses and helps lift him.  They manhandle him into the back seat and his friend climbs in beside him.  He gives the officer Derek’s address and as they take off, the kid glares at him.

 

“I feel like I’ve been arrested.  And where the fuck were you?  I can’t believe you missed...work,” he says awkwardly, glancing at the cop.  “You’re a fucking dumbass, you know that?”

 

Derek just stares at him as he huffs and looks out the window.  He was right, he’s always been right.  The moment they met, Derek’s just been dragging him down into his shit.  He would’ve been fine if he’d just kept dancing at the club and never became his friend.

 

When Danny looks back, he’s still glaring.

 

“You _should_ feel bad.  You’re a terrible friend, just so we’re clear.”

 

Derek wouldn’t argue with him even if he could.  It’s silent the rest of the ride to his apartment and when they do finally pull up, Parrish mumbles something about it being a bad neighborhood.  Derek would laugh at that if his chest didn’t feel like it was caving in on itself.  Of course it’s a bad neighborhood, people like himself live in it.

 

The two of them haul him out of the car, the meth heads and hookers scrambling down the street away from the police cruiser.  They pull him up the stairs and into the main lobby, leaning him against the wall.  Parrish kneels down and tries to get him to focus.

 

“What floor?  Which apartment?” he asks.

 

Derek manages to mumble out the few numbers they need, but only barely.  He’s having trouble staying awake and he only vaguely realizes they’re moving him again, digging out his keys, and entering his apartment.  Once inside, he’s gently set on the couch.  He thinks it’s over and then his left side explodes in pain.

 

It’s brief, so he figures one of them set his shoulder back in place.  He keeps his eyes closed as he feels hands on his other arm, someone preparing to put his elbow-

 

Derek does scream this time before trying to curl up on himself.  All it gets him is his rib flaring up and making his breath stutter into short gasps.  Someone rolls him onto the injured side, which actually helps some.  Once he’s settled, he opens his eyes though his vision is blurry.  He can make out Parrish crouched by the armrest and has a moment of panic about it, but it’s not like he can move to get away from him.

  
He lets his eyes fall closed again.  Though he's wary about drifting back into a nightmare filled sleep, he can’t stay awake any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments are welcome :)


	13. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has his first one-on-one therapy session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard warnings from tags.

“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself?” Dr. Morrell asks.

 

Stiles frowns and tries to decide what the best answer would be.  The honest answer would be yes; he’s thought about it every day since his mother killed herself in front of him.  That’s also the answer that’s going to get him locked up in this place until he ends up just like her.

 

“Sometimes,” he settles on.

 

She nods calmly.  Stiles is sure she hears that answer all the time.

 

“Have you ever followed through with these thoughts - ever purposefully hurt yourself?”

 

He glares at her, knowing what she’s probably thinking.  She’d seen the scars on his arms.  Stiles is sure she’s thinking he did it to himself.

 

“No, I’ve never followed through with these thoughts,” he answers honestly.

 

He’s been tempted many times, but the already existing scars on his body have always stopped him.

 

“Have you ever thought about taking your own life?”

 

“No,” he says with a sharp sigh.

 

Seeing the tick in her brow, he figures he answered that a little too fast.

 

“The thoughts of hurting yourself have never progressed that far?  You’ve never imagined how you would do it or created a plane to end your life?”

 

Stiles hates how direct her questions are.  He doesn’t like to acknowledge the fact that he thinks about hurting or killing himself - or others.  It makes him feel like his mother.  He doesn’t want to become her.

 

“No, they’re just passing thoughts,” he lies.

 

“About killing yourself?” she retorts quickly.

 

“No, just the first part,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“About hurting yourself,” she clarifies and he nods.

 

Morrell stares blankly at him, not giving anything away.  He wonders if she believes him.  If she doesn’t, he’ll never get out of here.

 

“How often do these passing thoughts occur?”

 

“I don’t know, not that often,” he says, trying not to snap at her.

 

They sit in silence for a while, Stiles refusing to speak, and the doctor assessing him.  It wasn’t the first time he’d been in therapy and it hadn’t been his choice back then either.  His father thought he needed to talk about what happened in this place.  He was probably right, but Stiles always found talking about it only made the memories worse.

 

“Stiles, why don’t you tell me about this farm you mentioned at the police station?”

 

“Why should I?  It’s not like you’ll believe me,” he retorts with a shrug.

 

“Try me.”

 

Stiles grits his teeth at her professionally calm attitude.  He hated therapy.  He hated therapists.  It and they were all a waste of time.

 

_“I agree.  You should rip that pen out of her hand and jab it into her neck.  Her blood would flow down her caramel skin, darkening her green blouse.  Can’t help wonder if the pen would break, if the ink would mix with her blood.  She’d bleed out as we watched, the light in her big brown eyes dimming, just like Mommy’s-”_

 

“Stiles?”

 

“What?” he asks dazedly, blinking.

 

Morrell watches him, her gaze flickering over his face.

 

“What just happened?” she asks quietly.

 

“What?  Nothing,” he says shakily.  He clears his throat and tangles his fingers together in his lap.  “You asked about the farm.  Yeah, I can tell you about that.  Our wonderful system placed me there in the summer after two other failed foster homes and a group home.  Guess no one did their research or the so called ‘background check’ on Coa- Mr. Lahey,” he says, stumbling over his name again.

 

Morrell nods for him to continue.

 

“I was his first foster kid.  Or at least, I think I was.  The other three didn’t show up until later.  He has a son too - my age.  We were all the same age,” he says, voice getting quieter the longer he talked.

 

At some point he’d looked away from her and to the floor, his sight distancing.

 

“It wasn’t even good for a while, like the home before it had been.  It began the moment the social worker’s car disappeared around the corner.”

 

“What began?” she asks just as quietly.

 

_A strong hand clamps down on his bicep and he whips his head around, startled.  The man grins, his big white teeth reminding him of a wolf.  His dark brown eyes looked impossibly large behind his too clear glasses._

 

_“Mr. Lahey-”_

 

_“It’s Coach, to you,” he says with a chuckle._

 

_Stiles splutters and immediately begins to struggle, trying to free his arm.  He manages to get loose, but the man wraps his arms around him from behind and begins to drag him further into the house.  Stiles screams for help, feet scrabbling along the floor, nails digging at the man’s skin._

 

_“Life here will be much easier if you behave, Stiles.”_

 

_He hits a hard cement floor, knees and hands scraping.  A heavy metal door clangs shut before he can get back to his feet, some kind of lock being thrown against it._

 

_Outside the door, he hears someone ask “What are you doing?”_

 

_“Shut up, boy!”_

 

“Stiles?”

 

A cool hand touches his and he jerks away from it.  He blinks and feels tears patter down his cheeks.  He quickly wipes at them and turns away from the doctor, who had come to sit next to him on the couch.  It’d been her hand that’d reached out to comfort him.  She pulls it back now, letting it rest between them on the couch.

 

“Can you tell me what you were thinking about?  What happened on the farm?”

 

“No,” he says.  He’s surprised at how choked his voice is, though he isn’t sure why.  “Nothing happened,” he adds.

 

“Stiles,” she says, reaching out again.

 

“Don’t,” he says, moving further away on the couch.  The word sounded more like a plea than a protest.

 

Stiles tries to take deep breaths to stop them, hands running through his hair and then down his face.  He laces his trembling fingers together in front of his mouth, eyes closing as the trembling courses through the rest of his body.

 

“Stiles, I won’t make you give details just yet.  I can see you’re not ready for that.  But I do need to go over the rest of the statement you gave at the station.  You said this man - your foster father - has these other kids locked up in the house.  Are you saying he’s holding them captive?  He’s hurting these children?” she asks.

 

Her voice, which had remained calm and cool until now, is low, her words sharp.  Stiles looks to her warily, uncertain of the sudden fury behind her eyes.  He worries she’s a ‘close friend’ of Lahey as well.

 

“Yes,” he whispers behind his hands.

 

The anger in her eyes suddenly dissipates, her face smoothing out to that cold nothingness once again.

 

“I’ll look into this.”

 

Stiles scoffs, not believing her.

 

“Don’t do that.  Not with me.  You can trust me.  I _will_ look into this.  I’ll pull some files and make a house call,” she says, leaning closer.  She doesn’t reach out again and he looks into her eyes.

 

He wants to trust her, like he wanted to trust those two cops, but he just can’t.  Not yet.

 

“Promise me,” he whispers.

 

The hard line of her mouth softens at the edges and she nods.

 

“I promise I’ll look into this,” she says.  “I believe you,” she adds.

 

Stiles nods and looks back to the floor.  She may believe him, but he doesn’t believe her.  Her promise sounded hollow, just like his father’s promises of “I’ll be home for dinner”.  Of course, now he’d give anything to hear him say it again, to hear the lie just one more time before he walked out the door for another night shift.  Another _double_ night shift.  He can never decide whether he feels guilty for being such a difficult child and driving both his parents away or if he’s angry that they both left him without saying goodbye, without caring if he’d be all alone without them.

 

“Stiles, I want you to rest today.  I’m going to recommend a sedative to help you sleep-”

 

“No, no more needles,” he snaps, jumping up off the couch and away from her.

 

Morrell freezes for a moment before nodding.

 

“Will you accept a pill?”

 

_“Yes, yes we will.  You should take it, Stiles.  You’re so very tired.  Let me take over for a while.  I promise it won’t hurt a bit.  You won’t feel a thing.  Just let me-”_

 

“No.”

 

He doesn’t even know who that was directed at - his doctor or his enemy.

 

_“I am not your enemy, Stiles.  I’m the best friend you’ll ever have.  No one will ever be closer.  No one will ever know you as well as I do.”_

 

“No.”

 

“Alright, no pills.  You don’t have to,” Morrell says placatingly.

 

It sighs in his ear, It’s chest moving against his back.  Stiles scrambles away from It, gaze trained on the floor, not willing to look up at It.

 

_“You can’t avoid me forever, baby.  I’m always gonna be here.”_

 

“Stiles?”

 

Blinking, he looks up - only to gape and back away towards the wall.  It follows him.

 

_“That’s right, **Genim**_ ,” It chuckles.   _“You can’t hide from me.  You can’t run from me.  I will be with your forever!”_

 

“Stiles, talk to me.”

 

_“No, talk to me, not her.  After all, I’m the only one you can count on.”_

 

He shakes his head and shuts his eyes tight, willing it to go away.

 

_“You’re going to **will** me away, are you?  Gonna take that first therapist’s advice after all these years?  ‘Just tell him he’s not welcome and he’ll leave’”,” _ It mocks and then laughs.   _“Yeah, like that’s a cure.  But you knew it wouldn’t work.  You know why that is?  Because you **love** me, Stiles.  Say it.  I know you can.”_

 

Stiles opens his eyes, tears welling up again as It stares back at him.  It’s lips turn up into that unsettling grin again and Stiles forces himself not to flinch away.  He knows Morrell has remained on the couch, most likely watching his every move.  The only way to get rid of It is to give It what It wants, but he can’t say it out loud.  If he does, he’ll be stuck in this place, labeled as crazy just like his mother.

 

_“Would that be so bad?  I kind of like it here.  Not as fun as the farm maybe, but it has its quirks.  Like that mysterious man who somehow knows your name,”_ It says, tongue swiping along It’s bottom lip.  It huffs as if amused.   _“He’s interesting.  I think I’d like to stay just for him.  We both saw the way he looked at us,”_ It says and winks, biting It’s lip.

 

Fed up, Stiles pushes away from the wall, and moves around It.  When It steps into his path playfully, he grits his teeth and walks through It.  As he knew it would, his throat closes up and he’s choking, eyes watering as he falls to his knees.  He vaguely notices Morrell rushing to his side, is dimly aware of her voice trying to soothe him, telling him to breathe.  Her hands on his shoulders only make him wheeze harder and she quickly retracts them.

 

He doesn’t know how long it takes - seconds, minutes, hours - but eventually her droning voice has him focusing on something other than the vice around his chest.

 

“29, 30, 31, 32…”

 

Stiles listens to her count, latching onto the repetition of it.  He fades in and out, losing his breath only to regain it again.

 

“47, 48, 49, 50…”

 

_“15, 16, 17…”_

 

_“How many days?” he asks._

 

_“Not sure.  I stopped counting somewhere in the mid-twenties.”_

 

_Over a month they’ve been in these cells._

 

_“Stiles, I’m so tired.”_

 

_“I know, Er.  He’ll let us out soon.  I promise.”_

 

_“Liar.”_

 

_He almost smiles at it - their new bantering phrases.  He says ‘I promise’, she calls him a liar.  Stiles takes comfort in her companionship from the other side of the wall and he hopes she takes some small comfort in his too._

 

“69, 70, 71, 72…”

 

He doesn’t know when it happened, but at some point his breathing had evened out and now they were simply sitting on the floor as she continued to count.  She counts to 100 and then stops.  Stiles takes a deep breath and lets it out before looking to her.  She doesn’t smile nor give any words of encouragement, but he nods in thanks for her help.  The woman nods and gets back to her feet.  She holds out her hand, but he shakes his head.

 

Morrell doesn’t get upset, only nods again and lets him get up on his own.  He leans against the wall and the room becomes silent.  Too silent.

 

“Session over?” he asks.

 

“Depends.  Do you want to talk about what just happened?”

 

“Nope.”

 

For the first time today she sighs - it’s quiet, reserved, but still a sigh.

 

“Alright.  I still want you to rest today, try to get some sleep.”

 

Stiles hums in agreement and leaves her office.  He doesn’t plan to sleep.  Not with that thing still hovering around his thoughts.

 

_“You know you love me.”_

  
He doesn’t love It.  He _doesn’t_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments/questions are welcome.


	14. Always Watching...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek finds a possible ally in Deputy Parrish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard warnings from the tags.

It’s the ceasing of the creaking ceiling fan that wakes him this time.  Prying his eyes open, Derek blinks dazedly up at the still fan blades.  He never turns the fan off.  It’s been a constant white noise that lulls him to sleep when he actually manages it.  He keeps staring at it, not understanding why it would be off.  Something else is different about it.

 

The light.

 

Derek’s brow furrows at that.  He hasn’t turned the switch off since the day he rented the place.  The fan and its light are always on, no matter what.  Bulbs for the light are the only thing he makes sure to stock up on.

 

With a growing panic, he slowly comes back to himself and realizes the apartment is dark.  The only light is from the moon streaming through the window, highlighting the opposite wall.

 

He tries to quickly get up, but agony spikes through his body the moment he moves and he’s left wheezing on the couch.  A shuffling sounds from only a few feet away and Derek freezes, his wheezing halting in his chest.

 

_He can’t see._

 

_But he can hear._

 

_Someone’s in here with him.  There’s only one person it can be.  He cringes at the tap, tap, tap of his cane._

 

“Derek?”

 

With a groan, he tries to move again, tries to get away.  A bright light suddenly flares to life and flicks to just under his face.  He curses when he realizes it’s the cop.  The guy stares down at him in concern and Derek kind of wants to punch him in the face.

 

“What-” he rasps.  He’d tried to ask what, exactly, the man thought he was doing in here, but his voice was so hoarse it made him flinch.  “Water,” he says instead.

 

The cop - Parrish, he remembers now - rushes towards the kitchen area.  Derek can hear him rummaging through cabinets and swearing when it takes forever to find a cup.  The fact that he still can’t see is pissing him off.  He can only hear his own forced quiet breathing and Parrish’s movements.  Focusing on the latter at least lets him know where the man is at all times.

 

His feet are what’s making the shuffling sound and Derek scowls.  He’s never had anyone but himself in this apartment.  His privacy is being violated and he doesn’t like it.  Parrish comes over, leans down, and brings the cup forward.

 

Derek instantly pushes at him, outraged that the guy thought he needed help just to drink some damn water.  He’s not fucking helpless and he thinks his murderous glare gets that point across.  The cop sighs heavily and shoves the glass into his hand.  Derek doesn’t lessen his stare as he gulps down the water.

 

The other, however, averts his gaze and his hands fidget at his belt.

 

“Earlier, you said something,” he mutters uncomfortably.

 

Derek raises a brow, daring him to finish that sentence.  He wasn’t even lucid earlier, whatever he said was under duress and can’t be taken seriously.

 

“You were saying ‘Please, don’t’”, he says, gaze darting back to him.  “Repeatedly,” he adds stiltedly.

 

He can only hope his grimace is hidden behind his glass.  Derek would like to say the guy is full of shit, but it’s dark and he was panicking, so he probably did say something along those lines.  Doesn’t mean this cop gets to know that.

 

“I think you need your hearing checked,” Derek grumbles.

 

Parrish just sighs again, shoulders slumping.  The silence becomes awkward as they ignore each other and Derek would really like this to be over.

 

“Do you need anything else?”

 

He doesn’t hold back the eye roll and then gingerly turns onto his side to set his glass on the floor.

 

“Yes.  I need you to get the fuck out.”

 

Derek thinks he hears some more swearing under the guy’s breath, but he doesn’t lash out like most people do.  He simply stares at Derek, hands still fidgeting at his belt.

 

“Not until I know you’re safe.”

 

Scoffing, he nudges a leg over the side of the couch and tries to push himself up.  He grits his teeth at the pain in his shoulder, but loses his breath the moment his rib reminds him it’s definitely broken.

 

“Let me help-”

 

“I’ve got it,” Derek snaps, glaring at the hands coming towards him.

 

Parrish stops, but hovers nearby.  He hasn’t been this bad, in this much pain, for quite some time and he’s expecting to blink and be back in the old house any minute now.  Derek breathes for a second as sweat beads along his brow.  He still hasn’t managed to sit up, is still leaning on his elbow, trying to ignore his throbbing shoulder.

 

He stares at the wall as he tries to make his body cooperate- stares at the moonlight shimmering on the white plaster.

 

Wait.  Moonlight.

 

Derek searches through his pockets, hissing at the pain it causes.

 

“Der-”

 

“Fuck.  What time is it?” he asks.  When Parrish stubbornly hesitates, his heart begins to race.  “What time is it?!” he shouts and regrets it.

 

His side seizes, making him pant and instinctively try to curl up on himself again.  Parrish reaches out again and Derek isn’t able to move to stop him.  The man gently pushes at his shoulders, trying to get him to lie back down.

 

“Get off me,” Derek manages.

 

The cop scowls and it has Derek nudging him away with his foot.  It gets the officer to back up a few steps, his hands thankfully coming off.  Derek sucks in a breath and moves quick before he can change his mind.  He’s sitting up and then on his feet in a flash.  The way he almost buckles tells him it was probably a bad idea, but he didn’t care.  He needed to find out what time it was and make it to the club before he missed another fight.

 

His first few steps in the direction of the bathroom have him swaying and he’s limping horribly as one of his ankles protests.  Parrish is once again reaching out, hands on his shoulders to steady him.  Derek slaps them off sharply.

 

“Would you stop?” he snaps.  He shuffles his way forward, gritting his teeth.  The cop hovers worriedly.  “I’m fine, back off.”

 

He once again only receives a sigh.

 

There’s no door to the bathroom, therefore his only option for privacy is to squeeze between the toilet and the wall.  He stands there for several minutes, trying to convince himself that he isn’t hiding.  It’s even darker in this room, with the light having blown out a few days ago.

 

He considers probing at his side to really check the damage, but figures touching it at all will only make it worse.  Instead, he simply stays still until he’s got his breathing more or less under control.  Once he does, he slowly makes his way back out.  Parrish is sitting on the crate by the couch, making Derek frown.  That crate is a table, not a chair.

 

Ignoring it, he painfully walks the few feet to the light switch and flicks it up.  Nothing happens.  He tries it a few more times, impatiently waiting for the fan to start and the bulb to spring to life.  Cursing, he begins searching through his cabinets for the extra bulbs.  Bending was apparently a terrible idea as it has him swallowing down a scream and bracing against the sink.  His skin is clammy with sweat and his breath comes in short bursts, forcing its way out of his lungs again and again.

 

“If you tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can-”

 

“Light bulb,” he rasps.

 

Parrish frowns and glances to the ceiling fan.

 

“I don’t think that’s the problem.  If it was just blown, the blades would still spin.”

 

Derek stares, not getting his point.  The man sighs - which is obviously a habit, an annoying habit - and leans against the counter.

 

“I think that means your power’s out,” he explains.  He looks back to the ceiling fan and crosses his arms.  “Pay your bill recently?”

 

The condescending tone is extremely unneeded here.

 

“None of your business.”

 

“You know, I _am_ just trying to help-”

 

“No one fucking asked you to!” Derek shouts.  “In fact, I’m positive I told you to get the fuck out.  You-”

 

Derek dissolves into a coughing fit that has him grabbing his side and losing his balance.  The cop is quick to catch him before he hits the floor, which Derek glares at him for.  Once he manages to take an almost full breath, he pushes the other away and stumbles his way towards the windows.  It was still too fucking dark in here - and no, he hadn’t paid his fucking bill.

 

He struggles to pull the curtains open, but once he does, he leans back against the cool glass.  It’s half frosted over from the winter air and the coldness seeps into his skin, soothing some of the ache in his back.  He glances around the apartment and can’t decide if the pale-blue glow from the moon makes it better or worse.

 

“Where’s Danny?” he asks tiredly.

 

“He left a few hours ago.  Think I was making him nervous,” Parrish says with a shake of his head.  “How the hell did a teenager get mixed up in all of this?  Whatever _this_ even is,” he mutters.

 

Derek huffs and says “He met me” before being wracked with more coughing.

 

His legs give out and he slides to the floor, back still pressed against the window.  The breath rattles in and out and Derek winces at how it crackles inside his chest.  Deep breaths seem to no longer be an option and he tries to keep his panting quiet.

 

“You never answered my earlier question,” he says.

 

“What’s that?” Parrish asks innocently.

 

He’s really terrible at that.  It’s like when he told that kid in the jail cell that he was letting him go.

 

“The time,” he mutters.

 

Derek tries to put the thought of the kid from his mind.  Unfortunately, it’s easier said than done.  He considers asking the cop what happened to him, but wonders if he really wants to know.

 

He heard Haigh.  Eichen - a place Derek has avoided at all costs for the last year.  He knows exactly what kind of people are locked up there, exactly _who_ is there.  He worries for this completely strange kid, who he knows nothing about.  But Derek was about his age when shit really hit the fan.  Granted, things weren’t exactly sunny before that, but at least he’d had his family to lean on (even if they didn’t know the reason).

 

But then the fire happened - his parents, grandparents, and all his cousins died and he was left with his two sisters.  They were all placed with their uncle.

 

Derek quickly skitters away from those thoughts and stares at Parrish expectantly.  The man sighs and glances at his watch.

 

“Almost 9 - just like the other night,” he mutters with a frown.

 

With a curse, Derek struggles to his feet, using the glass behind him as an aid.  For a moment, it creaks and he wonders how much pressure would take to break it.  If it shattered, he’d fall five stories.  He’d be dead.  Derek blinks and glances at the window and the alley below it - wonders if he should just push a little harder.

 

As if hearing his thoughts, Parrish cautiously comes forward, but doesn’t move to stop him.  Probably letting him choose whether he lives or dies.  He’s just lucky Derek knows he can’t miss another fight - Danny might pay for real if he does.

 

“I’ve gotta get to work.”

 

“You’re kidding, right?” Parrish asks.  “Derek, I have zero clue about what the hell is going on in that club, but what I _do_ know is that I can’t let you go back - at least, not in this condition.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek mumbles.  He searches around for a clean shirt, some almost clean jeans, and his jacket.

 

He must twist the wrong way because next he knows, his chest is tearing apart, the room tilts, and he’s falling.  He’s vaguely aware of Parrish rushing to his side and trying to wake him, but he’s too out of it to talk let alone move.

 

* * *

 

When he comes to, he’s still on the floor, but he’s on his back and his head is pillowed on what he thinks is probably his leather jacket.  It’s difficult to breathe and he tries to shift to alleviate the pressure on his rib, but it only has him locking up in more pain.

 

“Derek, don’t move,” Parrish says, crouching next to him.  “You were out for a while.  I think the fall tweaked your rib more than it already was.”

 

He almost snorts at the word choice because ‘tweaked’ implies mild pain that can be taken care of with an over-the-counter pill.  No, this feels more like someone plunged a hot poker into his chest, twisted it, and ripped it - along with everything holding him intact - out in one swift agonizing move.

 

Glancing out the window, he sees the moon has shifted considerably in the sky, almost darkening the entire apartment.

 

“Fuck, fuck,” he wheezes and feels around his pockets.  “Phone, get my phone.”

 

“Derek-”

 

“Damn it, just do it,” he says.  He’d tried to yell, but it came out more as another wheeze and just left him panting.

 

Parrish cooperates and fumbles in the couch cushions for a few before retrieving the device.  He hands it over and Derek squints up at the bright screen.  Once again there are several missed texts and calls.  He scrolls through his messages and they range from pissed to alarmed from various people.

 

Dialing into his voicemail, he just prays they haven’t done something drastic.

 

**Ethan:** “Look, everything in this situation is fucked, okay?  I know what we did...especially to Danny, man, that wasn’t cool.  But you need to listen to me.  I don’t know how long I can stall them, so get here.  Fast.”

**Aiden:** “You really are a piece of shit, you know that?”

**Ethan:** “Danny’s run.  We can’t find him anywhere.  If you know where he is, Hale, you need to tell him to stay there until this blows over.  Duke’s _really_ pissed this time, okay?  He’s sent everyone out - and I do mean _everyone_.”

**Aiden:** “I am going to beat your face in, Hale!”

 

Derek rolls his eyes and deletes those.  The twins were a nuisance more than anything.  He’s not sure what to make of Ethan’s sudden empathy.  Maybe the kid could be of use, but not with his brother at his side.  Aiden has always been a ticking time bomb - one Derek is trying to avoid as long as possible.

 

**The Duke:** “Though I am disappointed by your absence, I can’t deny how thrilled I am to punish you.  It will be just like old times, eh, little wolf?”

 

Derek had started shaking the moment he heard his voice and almost throws the phone at the message.  There’s a beep signaling another message and it’s enough of a distraction that he doesn’t break the damn thing.

 

**Danny:** “Derek, some seriously bad shit is going down.  I’m sorry I left without a goodbye, but I figured you wouldn’t be able to make tonight’s fight and I needed to find a place to lay low.  Some friend of yours - some girl from The Den, I forget her name - is letting me crash at her place.”

 

His friend sighs heavily over the line and is quiet for so long, Derek almost thinks that’s the end of the message.

 

“I knew when we became friends that it wasn’t going to be easy, with you being a fighter and all, but Derek, I didn’t sign up for this.  I’m just a street kid trying to keep my head above water...and I really do - _did_ \- want to help you through all this shit, I really did, but, man, it’s gotten to a point where I am literally hiding out in some chick’s basement from guys that are looking to bash my face in because of _you_.  Derek, I’m sorry, but I think I’m out - I’m done with all this.  But, uh, if you ever manage to dig yourself out of this hellhole, don’t hesitate to contact me.  Until then...guess I’ll see you around Jungle if...well, you know.  If you make it out of this.  Again, I’m really sorry.”

 

There’s another long pause before “Goodbye, Derek.”

 

The automated voice tells him that’s the last message.  He brings the phone from his ear and hits the ‘end call’ button as it comes to rest on his stomach.

 

With how hard he pushed Danny away, he never imagined his actual leaving to hurt this bad.

 

When his eyes start to sting, he quickly reminds himself that it’s better this way.  Now Danny won’t be hurt in anyway - he’s free to live his life without their burden of a friendship.  The image of the kid laughing with real friends - Braeden even, maybe - clears the moisture threatening to fall from his eyes.  Danny will be better off without him, Derek always knew that.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

Glancing to his left, he almost forgot Parrish was still there.  Derek clears his throat and nods.

 

“Yeah,” he says.  He curses when his voice comes out too high and raspy to be convincing.

 

Derek needs to put Danny’s departure from his life behind him.  Like the kid said, some seriously bad shit was about to go down.  He needed to either get to the club or run.

 

He imagines walking into The Den and starts shaking again.

 

_“Just like old times”_ Deucalion had said.

 

He won’t do it again.

 

“You said you wanted to help?” he asks, looking to Parrish.  The cop nods and helps him to sit up, hands retracting the moment he’s vertical.

 

“Get my duffel from that box in the corner.  Help me pack any clothes you can find.  If there’s any food at all in the kitchen, pack that too.”

 

Parrish hauls him to his feet and steadies him when he sways.  The man frowns and searches his face for a few minutes.

 

“You’re running.”

 

Derek doesn’t agree nor deny, simply shuffles to where his shoes are lying by the couch.  He gingerly sits and reaches for them.  Just that small movement has him panting again.  The cop is still standing there staring at him, worried crease in his forehead.

 

“Duffel bag.  Clothes.  You said you wanted to help, so do it.”

 

Parrish shakes his head and is suddenly on one knee by his feet to supposedly be at eye level.  He stares and Derek looks away to push his foot into his shoe.

 

“Hale, whatever it is, you can’t run from it.  Let me help for real.  Tell me what’s going on.  I’m a _police officer_ , I have resources-”

 

“No offense, but whatever ‘resources’ you have aren’t going to do shit.  I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your boss isn’t exactly what you might call squeaky clean.  Even if he _didn’t_ have his hand in just about everything, we aren’t exactly on good terms.  You really think if I went to him and asked him oh-so-nicely to help me out of this, he wouldn’t just laugh in my face?”

 

Derek even surprised _himself_ with the level of bitter sarcasm in all that.  The cop falters with his words for several minutes before sighing dejectedly and nodding.  He gets back to his feet and rummages through the boxes in the corner.  Parrish manages to find a few decent and almost clean outfits to bundle up into the bag.

 

“Have you lived here all your life?”

 

The question seems a bit out of context, but harmless.

 

“Yes.  Why?”

 

Parrish keeps busy with arranging his clothes as he speaks.

 

“Do you know anything about the Lahey farm?”

 

Frowning, that sick feeling of wrongness churns in his stomach again.

 

“Not really,” he mutters.  After a moment, he can’t keep his curiosity to himself.  “This have to do with that kid?”

 

Parrish sighs heavily, shoulders slumping.  “He claims Mr. Lahey isn’t who he appears to be.  Mr. Lahey also happens to be one of Haigh’s buddies.  But...the look in that kid’s eyes.  I can’t help thinking there’s some truth behind his story.  After all, what goes on behind closed doors usually stays behind them, right?” he says quietly.

 

Derek knows all too well about what goes on behind closed doors.  By his tone, he’s starting to think maybe Parrish does too.  Maybe that’s why he became a cop in the first place.  Neither says more on the subject, unsure of what to even do about it.

 

Derek’s too busy trying to tie his shoes without passing out to notice him find the last box.  The one that’s been sealed shut since he moved in.

 

“What about this one?”

 

Looking up, Derek’s heart stutters when he sees the man handling it.  He’s simply holding it up questioningly and yet Derek wants to punch him for even looking at it.

 

“I’ll go through it.  You raid the kitchen,” he says nonchalantly.

 

Parrish nods easily and puts it on the couch, along with the duffel bag for easy reach.  The man strolls into the kitchen and is obviously taking his time in his search for food.  Derek glances at the box.  He runs shaking fingers over the edge of it, trying to summon up the strength to open it.  The box would be too awkward and heavy to carry with him.  He would have to open it and sort through its contents - decide what he could take and what he couldn’t.

 

“Throw me those keys?” he calls.

 

Parrish does as asked, glances at the box for a moment, and then returns to the cabinets.  Derek looks to the box again.  He reaches to drag his key through the tape holding it closed, but it’s more difficult than he thought it’d be.

 

He’s only just punctured it when the door crashes open.

 

Derek is quick to jump from the couch, cursing his broken body for having him instantly collapsing in front of it.

 

“Don’t move!” Parrish shouts.  He’s got his pistol raised, safety off, finger on the trigger.

 

“You hire a bodyguard, Hale?” Aiden asks with a chuckle.

 

Derek would snark back, but he can’t seem to catch his breath and he’s still lying on the floor.

 

“No, that’s his pretty cop friend,” Kali says, strolling in.  Her floral orange dress flows around her sandaled feet and she gives Parrish a flirty smile.

 

The flimsy wooden floorboards literally shake as her husband stomps into the room and looks around.  When he sees the cop, he looks utterly unimpressed.

 

“Hello, newbie.  Care to lower the gun?”

 

“Don’t think I should.  You’re breaking and entering.”

 

Ennis huffs a laugh and slowly moves forward.

 

“I said _don’t_ move.  I _will_ shoot you,” Parrish says.  Derek is silently impressed with how calm he appears, how steady and demanding his voice is.

 

The larger man actually hesitates for a moment before grinning.

 

“You clearly don’t know how it works around here.  You see, we’re good friends of your boss.  Maybe I should give him a call, let him know one of his deputies is acting out of line.”

 

Ennis holds up his phone in warning.  When Parrish doesn’t back down, he begins to dial, raising a brow when the ringing echoes in the silence.

 

“What do you want?  I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement,” the deputy tries.

 

With a glance to his wife, they both nod and he ends the call.

 

“Good choice.  Now, here’s how I’d love for this to go.  You lower your weapon, step aside, and let us take this pond scum,” he says, nodding to Derek.  “Off your hands.  I’d say we both win in that case.  You’re new here.  Your life could be all riches and girls - or guys, if you prefer - if you simply stay out of our way.”

 

“Better yet,” Kali says, sliding closer to Derek on silent feet.  “Join us.  We could use someone like you in our pocket.  Quit the force and work for us.  We’d pay triple whatever you’re making now.”

 

Parrish is silent and for a heart stopping moment Derek thinks he’s actually considering.  He wouldn’t blame him really.  None of this had anything to do with him and what they were promising was too good to pass up.

 

The deputy glances at Derek, who keeps his face carefully blank.  He wouldn’t be responsible for swaying his decision, not when he knows it could get him killed.  The man starts to lower his pistol, only to raise it a second later and pull the trigger.

 

Ennis had apparently been prepared for him to decline and had hit the floor before the shot even went off.  No one had noticed Aiden’s twin brother coming into the room.  He grabs Parrish from behind in a headlock.  The gun goes off several times, hitting plaster and glass, but never an actual target. It only takes a few minutes for the deputy’s strength to wane and he slips into unconsciousness.

 

“Is he dead?” Aiden asks.

 

“Better be,” Ennis grumbles.

 

Ethan makes a good show of it - prodding at the officer and checking his pulse, but Derek already knows he wasn’t in the hold long enough to kill.  With the commotion of the bullets flying, it seems none of his cohorts took notice, so when Ethan nods to confirm the cop is gone, they believe him easily.

 

Derek still doesn’t know what to make of him - why he’s suddenly turning against his own.

 

A strong hand slaps against his chest and he scrambles to get up, to get away.  Kali holds him down easily, straddling his hips. She runs delicate fingers over his chest and it only takes a few minutes for him to go numb and pliant beneath her.

 

She leans down to whisper in his ear, “That’s a good puppy.  You’re always so well behaved for me.  Come now, I’m going to take you to the boss.”

 

When Derek shakes his head dazedly in protest, she coos at him and plants a chaste kiss on his cheek.

 

Her hand grazes up under his shirt, her nails gently scratching down his stomach.  Derek is instantly frozen, his body locking up at her touch.

 

“Don’t worry, pup.  Everything’s alright.  You’re always good for me, but you’ve been a very bad boy for the boss.  Bad boys need to be punished, don’t you agree?”

 

Though he wants to throw her off, wants to scream and hit and kick, he doesn’t do anything other than numbly nod in agreement.

 

“Good boy.”

 

* * *

 

They bring him straight to Deucalion’s office, Kali’s touch never leaving him to keep him compliant.  The twins sit across from them in the back of Duke’s limo - Aiden grinning like he’s won a prize and Ethan staring passively out the window.  Ennis navigates the streets with ease, pulling up outside the club.

 

Jungle is still in full swing and no one bats an eye as his captors lead him to the side alley.

 

He’s dragged down the long, dark hallway and shoved roughly into the man’s office.  Derek hits the floor with a dull thud and the pain is almost enough to bring him back out of his head.  With her hands no longer on him, he blinks rapidly to try to reorient himself, but it’s useless.

 

Peppermint washes over him, making him choke, breath stuttering painfully down his throat and into his chest.

 

“My sweet, sweet boy.  You just never learn, do you?  You cannot run from me,” he whispers.

 

Gentle, warm fingers trail across his cheek.

 

“You cannot _hide_ from me.  I may be blind, my little cub, but you should know better.  I am always watching - no matter where you go, no matter who you’re _with_ ,” he hisses.  “I am always watching.  You do know why, don’t you?  Because you are mine.  You are nobody else’s - not anymore.  Not that cretin that brought us together, not that pretty little officer you’ve befriended, not the young dancer with the tight body.  You have _always been mine_.”

 

Derek’s chest seizes as he holds back a cry - a cry of despair, of anger, of agony, of desperation.  The Duke taps his cane and Ennis grabs him roughly under the arms.  Words spill frantically past his lips as he struggles not to be dragged.  He doesn’t even know where he’s being taken - just knows he never wants to make it there.

 

“Don’t, don’t!  Get off me you- I’m sor-”

 

Even now, when his life's in danger, the words won’t come.  He tries several times to apologize, to beg for his forgiveness like he used to so many years ago, but he can never finish.

 

In the end, Derek simply locks up again and goes utterly silent as he’s dragged off - the gang watching him as he goes.  The twins - one gleeful, the other barely able to watch.  Kali - her gaze trailing after him filled with only the lust she seemingly has little control over.

 

The Duke.  Though he cannot see, his entire body moves in turn with Derek and Ennis, as if he _can_.

 

In that moment, Derek finally realizes he never really escaped anything, let alone the past he tried so hard to be free of.

 

* * *

 

Ennis dumps him in a small room in some corner of the basement.  The concrete beneath him is damp, water dripping not far off.  The door creaks as it closes, taking the only light with it.  There is no ceiling fan with a bright bulb for him to watch here - no extra bulbs nearby to alleviate the dark pit of fear he’s always trapped in.

 

“Have fun, Hale.  We’ve all had the joy of a night in The Box.  It’s just your turn now.”

  
He slams the door closed and the clang only reminds him of the gated door of the police department, when Stilinski was dragged off to Eichen.  Screams bounce off the concrete walls of his cell and though deep down he knows they’re his own, he only hears the kid as he struggled not to be taken to the asylum.  Even locked away in the dark, Derek can’t help wonder who is actually in more danger - himself or the kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments are welcome :)


	15. ...And Always Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tangles with It on a deeper level.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard warnings from tags.

Stiles spent all day trying to pretend It wasn’t lingering in the shadows - pretending he didn’t see It’s smirk in the mirrors, pretending he didn’t hear It’s laughter echoing down the halls, pretending he didn’t feel It’s touch grazing along his skin.

 

The nurses kept asking if he was alright, the other patients avoided him, and every time he turned a corner Brunski was there.  Even now, he’s lingering at the end of the hall, just watching him as he makes his way to the cafeteria.

 

Ignoring him, Stiles slips into the room and loads his plate with tonight’s super-healthy-and-slightly-edible dinner.  He thinks it may be some type of chicken with rice, but said rice was more of a sticky glob and the chicken bounced when it slipped onto the floor.  No meat should bounce.  Stiles grimaces, but can’t help scarfing it down, paranoid it will be taken away.  Sometimes - on her really bad days - his mother would either refuse to feed him or take it away once given as a ‘punishment’.  He never really understood what he was being punished for, but obviously he’d done something wrong - done something to hurt her deeply.  To this day, he wonders what he could have done that was so bad, but still believes it must have been his fault.

 

Within minutes, his meal is gone, not even tasted.

 

When he sees Brunski coming, he quickly gets up, throws away his trash, and dashes into the hall.  He’d managed to avoid him all day and he didn’t want to break his stride now.

 

Stiles gravitates towards the rec room he’s always used - the one with the glaring red panic button.  He remembers pushing the damn thing on more than one occasion.

 

_“We should start a riot just to hear that obnoxious alarm again.  Everyone gets all riled up.  It would be exciting.”_

 

“No, it wouldn’t,” he mutters and then glances around to make sure no one heard him.

 

Rounding the corner, he stops in his tracks when he finds a group of patients lounging around.  He’s seen some of them in the hallways and during meals, but they’ve never ventured into this room before - save for Oliver, who’s still working diligently on his puzzle.  Someone has taken Stiles’ usual chair across from him.

 

The man turns and positively lights up when he sees him, as if Stiles is the one birthday present he’d been waiting for all year.

 

“Stiles,” Peter says cheerily.  “Just the boy we’ve been waiting for.”

 

Glancing around, he has a feeling ‘we’ doesn’t mean Oliver or the voices that may or may not be in Peter’s head.  No, Stiles is assuming ‘we’ is referring to the other people sprawled out around the room.

 

“Yeah?  Why’s that?” he asks, trying not to sound nervous.  By Peter’s answering smirk, he knows he failed.

 

Oliver glances at the man and around the room before concentrating back on his puzzle, his fingers twisting a piece so badly it will never be able to fit.  Casually strolling around the room, he hopes it isn’t obvious that he’s inching closer to the panic button.

 

_“No, no, let’s see what Blue Eyes has to say.  Could be interesting.  Could be... **tasty**.”_

 

Stiles hopes even more that his cringe goes unnoticed.

 

“ _You_ are the key to everything,” Peter says cryptically.

 

One of the men sitting by the television gives out a sharp, tittering laugh, as if all of this was the funniest thing he’s heard all day.  Stiles glances at him briefly, taking in his tall thin frame, before focusing back on Peter.

 

“What exactly does that mean?” he asks calmly.

 

Peter grins in that unsettling way he has and stands from his chair to slowly stroll the room - copying Stiles’ every move.

 

“What do you think is going to happen when your 72 hours are up?” he asks.  “There’s only two choices: lockdown - in which you remain here, most likely until you’re 18, or thrown back into the system, again until you’re 18.  Your current future, in either case, doesn’t look very sunny.”

 

The way he’s strolling the room forces Stiles further away from the panic button.  Oliver looks to him, chewing his lip and ripping the puzzle piece to shreds.  In the corner, he bumps into a woman he hadn’t even seen sitting there.  She’s got her fingers tangled in her hair, stroking it over and over, as she rocks back and forth with a silly smile on her face.

 

“Um, sorry,” he mutters and moves away.

 

Her eyes snap up to him and she shakes her head in response, her long, dark hair falling fully around her shoulders.

 

“I don’t see why my future concerns you at all.  You don’t even know me,” he says in response.

 

“On the contrary.  I know quite a bit about you.  I know you’ve been here before, as a child, but you were only visiting back then.  Your mother, wasn’t it?” he asks, tilting his head.  He turns to one of his companions - a man with some kind of metal contraption holding his mouth closed.  “That _is_ what my nurse said, yes?”

 

The muted man nods, eyes following Peter as he continues his route around the room.

 

“Nurse?” Stiles asks.

 

Peter’s gaze briefly flicks to the doorway before turning back to him with that grin again.  A woman with pulled back red hair and red lipstick stands there, calmly watching the group with dark, beady eyes.  Stiles immediately knows she will be of no help if this little meeting takes a bad turn.

 

“It’s also obvious that your father isn’t in the picture if you’ve ended up in our wonderful foster system.  I will admit I don’t know the story behind him, but what I _do_ know is that now that you’re here, you’ve presented the perfect opportunity for us to put my plan into motion.”

 

A man at one of the other tables snorts into his cup, which smells like it must be filled with tea.  He flicks an amused look Peter’s way over the rim, his tousled brown hair getting in his eyes in the process.  Peter glares at him for the briefest of moments before that unnerving mask is pulled down once again to cover his anger.

 

“And what plan is that?” he asks.  Stiles can’t even pretend he isn’t nervous this time.

 

Peter grins even wider.  “Escape, of course.”

 

“A breakout,” the nurse in the doorway says.  Her beady eyes land on Peter and give him an appreciative once over.

 

_“We should really make a move soon or that mousy little nurse is going to snatch him right up.”_

 

Stiles almost shushes it out loud again, but holds back at the last second.

 

The other door closes with a bang as Brunski storms in, leading Meredith to the couch.  Stiles looks between him and Peter, brow raising when the orderly is obviously unperturbed by this meeting.

 

“You’re helping them leave?  Why would you do that?” he asks.  Though Brunski is a ‘follow the rules when it suits me’ kind of guy, Stiles hadn’t expected him to just release patients.

 

“This job doesn’t pay as well as you might think.  As long as extra money keeps flowing into my account, I couldn’t give less of a fuck what you insane people are up to,” he says and then leaves without another word.

 

Stiles will openly admit he’s gaping like a fish.

 

“As I asked earlier Stiles,” Peter continues as if nothing happened.  “What do you expect will happen after tomorrow night?  Sure, maybe this time you’ll get a good family.”

 

Stiles had stopped moving at the shock of Brunski, but Peter hadn’t.  He’s only a few feet away now, staring at Stiles as if he’s opened the present and it was a bloody steak ripe for the taking.  Stiles tries to back away, but hits a wall.

 

Directly in front of him and way too fucking close for comfort, Peter continues.

 

“Maybe find a woman that wants to be called _mommy_ and care for you when you’re sick.  But what are the chances of that, hm?   _I’d_ think there’s a better chance you’ll end up right back where you started...or somewhere worse,” he says.

 

His tongue grazes along his bottom lip, gaze travelling the length of his body.

 

_“Reach out.  He’s right there.  Just reach out and grab what he’s so clearly offering - give him what he wants, baby.  Give **us** what we want.  You can feel it can’t you?”_

 

All Stiles could feel was a vague nausea as he pressed his back harder into the wall.

 

Peter’s eyes dart back up to his face and he braces a hand against the wall just by Stiles’ head as he leans closer.

 

“The only way to make sure that doesn’t happen is to _break out_.”

 

_“Lean forward.  Close the gap.  Do you think he’d be surprised or get rough right off the bat?  I bet he’d be rough.  God, I **hope** he’s rough.”_

 

The man leans even closer, body and face mere inches away - icy blue meeting amber brown with such intimacy Stiles’ entire face flushes.  Peter’s voice drops lower, his words barely a whisper.

 

“We can just run away, Stiles.”

 

_“Kiss him, damn it!”_

 

For a panicked moment, Stiles thinks Peter heard It and blurts “We?”  His voice was embarrassingly breathy, no matter how uncomfortable and unresponsive the rest of his body was feeling.

 

Peter huffs softly, gaze darting to Stiles’ parted lips.

 

“Well, I _am_ your best chance of getting out of here.  I’ll plan everything, don’t you worry about that.  You just be ready, when in three days’ time, I come knockin’ on your door.”

 

His eyes flick back up to Stiles’ and he slowly reaches out, trailing a finger from between Stiles’ collarbones and down his chest.

 

_“ **Yes** ,”_ It hisses, a shiver running through them.   _“He wants you, he wants **us**.  Take what is yours.  Take it!  Do it!”_

 

Stiles is trembling both under Peter’s unrelenting gaze and It’s screaming voice in his ear.  It tries to force him to reach out, but he plasters himself even further to the wall to stop It, hands clenched into fists.

 

“Would you like that, Stiles?  Would you like to run away with me?” Peter asks hoarsely.

 

Stiles counts silently in his head until his breathing is almost steady and he feels more in control.  It takes him until 100 again, but it’s worth it for the puzzled look on Peter’s face.

 

Taking a deeper breath and letting it out slowly, Stiles risks placing his hands on Peter’s shoulders-

 

_“Wrap your arms around his neck, do it!  I know you want to.  You want that and more.”_

 

-and pushes firmly until Peter is backing away, his brow ticking in surprise.

 

“No,” he says calmly.

 

_“Liar_ ,” It snaps.

 

“I don’t want to run with you.  I don’t want _anything_ you’re offering,” he adds, trying to make it clear without having to actually say it.

 

His body suddenly goes numb, his fingers shaking with cold.

 

“Don’t listen to him, blue eyes.  He wants _all_ you have to offer.”

 

With a shock, he knows without needing it confirmed that those words literally just came out of his own mouth.

 

It took over.  It’s never done that before.

 

“He won’t admit it because he’s a coward, but he liked what he felt, honey.  Come here, Petey, give us what you’re offering.”

 

_“Shut up, shut up, what are you doing?  How are you-”_

 

Body spasming, Stiles is suddenly panting and scrambling back against the wall, eyes wide in terror.

 

_“Fuck, **just** when we were getting somewhere.”_

 

Stiles tries to speak, tries to ask It _how_ , but his throat is closing, and he can’t move.

 

“Oh my,” he hears Peter murmur softly.  He comes forward again, gaze searching his face.  “You are a very haunted little boy.  So much like another I used to know - used to love,” he says quietly with nostalgia - almost like he was speaking to himself, remembering an old lover with compassion and tenderness.

 

_“Hmm, soft love making could be interesting too.  Any way his hands are on us could be interesting.”_

 

“Shut up, shut up,” Stiles whispers frantically.

 

Before Peter or anyone else can say or do something, Stiles unglued himself from the wall and runs.

 

* * *

 

When Morrell calls him to her office, Stiles tries to hide the shaking in his hands, but can’t stop his leg from bouncing anxiously.  He’s about to bite right through his lip, when she reaches over the desk and places her hand over his.

 

He flinches badly, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm along the desk.

 

“Stiles, tell me what happened.  Did someone hurt you or bother you in any way?”

 

“What?  No, no, of course not.  Everything’s fine.”

 

He’s thinking the way his right eye won’t stop twitching and the way his fingers won’t stop tapping is wholly unconvincing.  But everything’s fine, everything’s totally fine.

 

_“I can take over again, if you like.  It was quite fun.  We weren’t so...twitchy.”_

 

Stiles sighs sharply, his movements increasing and it takes several minutes for him to realize the doctor is counting again, trying to slow him down.  For once, it only makes him more anxious.

 

“Stop counting,” he snaps.  He can’t tell who said those words.

 

“Alright,” she responds calmly.

 

“Why am I here?  Did you find the farm?  Are you going to do something?  Do I have to stay here?  Are my friends okay?  What-”

 

“Stiles, take a deep breath for me.”

 

“No, I don’t want to take a deep breath, I just want some fucking answers!” he yells.

 

“I’ll answer all your questions once I know you’re calm enough to listen.”

 

A bone deep shiver wracks his body.

 

“Trust me, honey, he won’t calm down until you answer him.  So, about the farm-?”

 

Stiles gasps as he pushes It back down, bending forward in his chair as terror creeps up the back of his spine - or is it It’s fingers?

 

“Breathe in slowly.”

 

Morrell is crouched in front of him, her cold brown eyes staring up at him.  It laughs loudly and drowns her out, but he can still see her lips moving as she tells him to breathe, as she starts counting again.  He focuses on her until It begins to grow quiet, fading back into the background, where It’s supposed to be.  Stiles can vaguely hear It protesting, but ignores It.

 

“Are you with me?  Can you hear me?”

 

“Yes,” he rasps.

 

“Good.  Follow me - 49, 50, 51, 52-”

 

“53,” he says and gasps in air.  “54...55...56…”

 

By the time he makes it to 100 again, his throat has opened and he can sit up without fearing being pushed down by It.  Stiles continues to breathe in and out slowly, not wanting to upset the rhythm.

 

“I need you to tell me what just happened.”

 

“I…” he starts before swallowing harshly.  If he tells her, he’ll never leave this place.  He needs answers first.  “I’ll tell you...but, I need to know what you found out first.  Please.”

 

Dr. Morrell frowns and contemplates for several long seconds before nodding once.

 

“Fair enough.”

 

She stands and returns to her chair behind the desk.  As habit, she folds her hands delicately in her lap and trains her large brown eyes on him.

 

“I looked into your story.”

 

Stiles anxiously waits for more and his heart begins to race when she remains silent.

 

“And?” he asks.

 

Her gaze flicks away for the briefest of moments, but it’s enough of a nervous gesture that he knows he’s not going to like what he hears.

 

“Stiles, I visited the farm - the Lahey Farm, that is.  I spoke with Mr. Lahey and he granted me a tour of his entire property, including the house.  After that, he introduced me to his son - who, though quiet and a bit shy, I believe to be well-adjusted.”

 

Stiles had begun frantically tapping his fingers again, this time against his thigh, where she couldn’t see.

 

“Well-adjusted,” he repeats quietly.  “Yeah, he’s really well-adjusted.  I’m sure the bruising around his right eye is just an injury from being clumsy, right?  Because I haven’t been gone long enough for that to heal, so unless he covered it with makeup - which his father would have beat him for, would have said makeup was for bitches and faggots - you would have seen it as well.  Let me hear the excuse his father gave.  I’m sure I’ve heard it before.”

 

Dr. Morrell fidgets slightly, her calm exterior almost cracking.  He needed to make her see, needed to make her go back and _really see_.

 

“Isaac told me he plays lacrosse.  I saw the photo of him with the high school’s team.  Are you telling me they staged that?” she asks a bit defensively.

 

“You tell me.  Did Lahey know you were coming or did you drop by unannounced?”

 

Her silence tells him everything and she lowers her gaze again for only a split second.  She most likely made a phone call to prepare them.  Social workers did that often.  Stiles doesn’t really understand the concept.  If they really wanted the truth about some of these ‘nice, happy homes’ they place innocent children with, then he’d think they’d make surprise visits.

 

“Even if they staged the photos, they wouldn’t have had enough time to stage the entire house _or_ the farm.  They had all of twenty minutes between the phone call and my arrival.  You told Sheriff Haigh that he keeps restraints in the basement and locks on the outsides of all the doors.  I found none of that.”

 

Stiles’ stomach clenches as her defensive tone continues.

 

“As for the other children you mentioned, I also found no trace of anyone but Isaac and his father living in that house.”

 

“That’s impossible!  I was _there_.  I didn’t just make this up!”

 

The doctor sighs quietly, gets to her feet, and sits in the chair next to him.

 

“Stiles, while I don’t doubt you’ve been through something horrifically tragic, I _do_ have doubts about where and who has hurt you.”

 

“This can’t be happening,” he mutters, shaking his head.  He turns to her full on, hands braced on his knees.  “Why would I be lying about this?  How can you be sure there were no other kids there?  Maybe he locked them up somewhere, or...or…”

 

His eyes burn as reality hits him.  She didn’t find any other kids because they don’t _exist_ anymore.

 

_“I told you they were dead.”_

 

Silent, astonished tears patter down his cheeks and he doesn’t try to stop them or wipe them away.  It’s right - Lahey probably killed them that very night.  He must have known Stiles would go to the police and he had to get rid of the evidence - get rid of his _friends_ , the only reasons Stiles had managed to stay sane during all the torment.

 

_“Sane?  Honey, we haven’t been anything close to sane since the day Mommy slashed her wrists open.  You remember that.  How could we forget?  Her blood sprayed up the walls and our face like her veins were sprinklers.”_

 

“No!” he shouts and jumps to his feet.  Morrell remains sitting, calmly assessing him.  “This doesn’t make any sense!  Even if he...if he-”

 

“Killed them?” she guesses quietly.

 

“Even if he did, there must still be files on them - when they entered the system, their past homes, everything.  I know you people only refer to us as a goddamn _number_ , but at least that means there is some record of us having existed.  Please, you have to look them up.  I can give you their names, I-”

 

“Stiles, you had already given their names at the police department.”

 

“And?”

 

“I looked for them, believe me I did.  I ran their names through our system _and_ the arrest records,” she says.  She pats the chair next to her, trying to convince him to sit down again.

 

“Just tell me.”

 

She sighs quietly again and is clearly trying decide the most delicate words to say.  “I’m sorry, but these people don’t exist.”

 

He should have sat down when she offered because her words have him swaying on his feet.

 

“Stiles, you need to sit down and I need you to hear what I’m about to say.”

 

Though he’s shaking his head, he _does_ sit before he falls to the floor.

 

“Most of the names you gave us were either fake, or as I said, these people never existed.”

 

“No, they-”

 

“Only _one_ name brought up a match, besides yours.”

 

Stiles blinks and feels more tears roll down his face.  He stares at her, waiting for more.  She reaches a hand out to gently grip his arm and he doesn’t have the energy to pull away.

 

“The only name that matched was Cora Hale.”

 

His breath whooshes out, whether in relief or more despair, he isn’t sure.

 

“And?  Did you find her?  Please tell me you found her.  Is she okay?  Is she here?” he asks rapidly, breath hitching with every inhale.

 

“No, Stiles, she’s not here,” Morrell says quietly - too quietly.  “This may be difficult for you to hear, but you need to listen to me carefully.  Cora Hale _did_ exist, but she was never on that farm.  There is _no possible way_ you met her there.  The only reason I could even find anything on her, is because of her death certificate-”

 

“What?  No, she-”

 

“Cora Hale died almost 6 years ago.  She was 11 years old and there was a fire.  Most of her family perished in the house.”

 

Stiles jumps to his feet again, terrified and infuriated.  “No!  That doesn’t make sense!  I met her, okay?  I _know_ her.  Cora is alive and she was on that farm with me and the others.  The only damn reason I even left them was _because_ of her.  Do you understand?  I didn’t want to leave them!” he cries.  “I wasn’t going to!  She convinced me to.  Lahey - he hit her and she was down on the ground and she _nodded for me to go.”_

 

“Stiles, calm down-”  
  


“Shut up!  I’m tired of hearing that!  Why should I calm down when you’re telling me the last 6 months of my life didn’t happen?  That the only people I care about _don’t **exist**_?!”

 

_“Hit her!  Do it!  I know you can!”_

 

“Shut up!” he yells at It.

 

“Stiles, listen to me!” Morrell yells, gripping his hands tightly.  He tries to pull away, but she clings, trying to make him pay attention.  “I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I am 100% positive that Cora died in that fire-”

 

“How?  How are you so sure?”

 

“I saw the pictures, the DNA results matched hers.”

 

“That...that doesn’t-” he hiccups.

 

“I’m sorry, but it’s true.  As for the others-”

 

“Don’t...I don’t want to hear anymore-”

 

“You need to.  You need to let this sink in, need to believe reality.  The others - Erica and Boyd - they aren’t in any of our records.  Stiles, I know you don’t understand right now, but I believe you created these people to survive the trauma-”

 

“No!” he screams and pushes her away.

 

She tries to reach for him again, but he picks up one of the chairs to ward her off.

 

“Stiles-”

 

“No, you’re lying!  They were real, they _are_ real!”

 

_“You sure about that?  You’ve always thought the opposite of me...maybe she’s right.  Maybe you only made them up.  Maybe you only imagined them - imagined all of it.”_

 

“No, no, no, no!  It happened, they were real!  I-I saw them, I heard them, I _felt_ them, they were real!”

 

At some point he’d thrown the chair and it crashed into one of the large bookcases.

 

_“That’s it, let it out, don’t hold back.”_

 

Stiles is vaguely aware that he’s sobbing, that he’s screaming, that he’s letting It manipulate him into picking up the other chair and hurling it against the window.

 

_“I said don’t hold back, baby.”_

 

His fists bash against her desk, sending papers and other nonsense flying.  Stiles is breathing raggedly as he throws her chair as well, in the hazy area he knows she’s standing.

 

The alarm blares.

 

_“Yes, yes, there it is!  Keep going!  Smash that lamp!”_

 

Stiles picks up the lamp and smashes it against the wall.  The bulb and base shatter into pieces that scrape along his skin.

 

_“Fuck, look at that, we’re bleeding.  Just like Mommy.”_  It laughs loud and hard at that, the sound reverberating around the room.

 

Strong arms grab ahold of him.

 

_“Fight back!  Hurt them, make them bleed.  Kill them!”_

 

His nails dig into flesh, his feet pound against soft body parts, his throat burns as he screams and screams.

 

A sharp pinch pushes at his hip and he immediately struggles harder, knowing what it is.

 

_“Damn them and their needles!  Kill them, kill them now!”_

 

Stiles, for the first time in his life, tries to let It out, tries to let It take over willingly as he feels the sedative slowing down his system.  There’s a brief surge of energy as It grabs the reigns, but even It isn’t strong enough to overpower the drugs.

 

His vision becomes hazy as he feels the orderlies drag him away.  When he hears a familiar and soft whoosh and is promptly dumped on a cushioned floor, he panics anew.

 

Stiles reaches up, tries to cling to the orderly in front of him, tries to beg him not to leave him in here.  His words are already slurring and the man above him easily shoves him away.  The bright lights surrounding them create an unbearable halo around the person as they crouch low.

 

“I was wondering when you’d break, Stilinski.  Been watching you all day, you know - seen how you talk to someone who isn’t there.  Is it your Mommy herself or did her demons - wait, no, ‘the shadows’ she called them-” he laughs.  “Did her shadows latch onto you after she took her own life?  Is that why you’re lying in this padded cell?  Huh, kid?”

 

Brunski laughs again and nudges at him a bit before leaving.

 

Stiles lies on the cushioned floor and wonders if he’s right - if his mother’s shadows simply transferred to him on that awful day.

 

_“Oh, please, honey.  I didn’t torture your Mommy.  Don’t you remember?  I was around **long** before that day.”_

 

With a low moan, he turns on his side, turns away from It.  He doesn’t want to remember, he doesn’t want to think about it.

 

_“Here, I’ll remember for you.”_

 

* * *

 

_“Mommy!  Mommy!”_

 

_“Shut up!”_

 

_“Mommy, I’m sorry!”_

 

_“I said shut up!”_

 

_Crying, crying, crying.  It’s too dark, it’s too dark._

 

_“I’m sorry!”_

 

_Mommy’s crying too, why is she crying, I hurt her, I hurt her so bad._

 

_“Claudia?  Claudia, where’s Stiles?”_

 

_“Mommy!”_

 

_“No!  John, don’t let him out!  He - he was trying to hurt me!  You see it, don’t you?  It’s in his eyes!”_

 

_Crying, screaming, loud banging._

 

**_“This really isn’t so bad.”_ **

 

_“Who - who are you?”_

 

**_“You know this is your fault don’t you?”_ **

 

_“No, I-”_

 

**_“Yes, it is.  Mommy hates you.  You heard her.  You tried to hurt her.”_ **

 

_“I didn’t-”_

 

_Crying, crying, crying._

 

**_“You need to stop crying.  It only hurts her.”_ **

 

_Crying, crying-_

 

**_“I said stop crying!”_ **

 

_Crying-_

 

**_“No.  Be quiet.  You’re only in the closet because you were bad.  This is your punishment.  So stop crying and take it.”_ **

 

_A loud hiccup._

 

_Screaming outside._

 

_Banging on the door._

 

_“Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying…”_

 

**_“That’s good, baby.”_ **

 

* * *

 

“Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying.”

 

_“See?  I helped you.  You **need** me.”_

 

“Stop crying...stop…”

 

_“That’s it.  Just go to sleep.  I’ll be here when you wake up.”_

 

“Stop...stop…”

 

_“I’m always here.”_

  
Stiles falls asleep to It’s frost-tipped fingers dragging lightly along his scalp, the chill sinking deep into his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments/questions are welcome.


	16. The Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's first day in The Box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but extremely important. As always, heed the warnings mentioned in the tags.

When the tremors hit, he punched his fists into the stone walls over and over again in attempt to stop them.  In reality, he knew it would only make it worse, but he was out of options.  It was either curl up in one of the corners and suffer through it or work himself into a frenzy until he couldn’t feel it.

 

With every passing minute, he grew colder and colder until his teeth were chattering.  The walls around him were actually warmer than his skin, telling him it was _him_ and not the damp surroundings causing it all.

 

At one point, the door had opened and someone left behind a tray with food and water.  He’s ashamed to say that he had curled up in the corner, shivering and waiting for pain to set in, but the person simply dropped off the tray and left.

 

His brain kept trying to drag up every memory it could think of the longer he sat in the dark silence.  Derek would either shake his head and clamp his eyes shut or bash his head against the stone.  He was tired of remembering, tired of being terrified of a past he’ll never escape, tired of this bone-deep chill that had slithered into his body and never let go.

 

Eventually he was able to drum up enough energy to slide the tray closer.  The water was welcomed, but when he ate a few bites of the turkey sandwich, he quickly dropped it.

 

As far as he could tell, there was nothing wrong with it - and yet it rolled violently in his stomach and he took in deep breaths in an attempt to keep it down.

 

When it did finally force it’s way up, the door was opening again, dim lighting streaming inside his cave.

 

“What a sick, sick boy you are.”

 

The following _tsk tsk_ has him scrambling further into the box, his back pressing up against the stones.  He’s shaking too badly to even push himself up, let alone get to his feet.  Derek can only lie there as Deucalion strolls into the box, his cane tapping along the cement floor.  The man stands in the doorway, the light framing him like a halo.

 

He turns slightly to Ennis standing behind him.

 

“Leave us,” he says, waving him away.

 

“Sir?  He could be dangerous.”

 

Deucalion’s lips stretch into a smile and he laughs softly.  Derek can’t stop his gaze from watching the man’s fingers caress his cane, a more forceful shudder raging through him.  It leaves him gasping and curling up tighter in expectancy.

 

“I don’t believe that.  You would never hurt me, would you?” he asks, head tilted in Derek’s direction.  “No, your uncle was right all those years ago.  You are a very good boy.”  His voice drops to a whisper, but his next words still bounce around the box.  “Such a very good little cub.  I really do love that about you.”

 

Derek chokes on his next breath and his gaze snaps to Ennis.  He’s sure he looks pathetic as he stares pleadingly at him to not leave them alone.  The man frowns, shakes his head, and slowly closes the door.  The room is once again plunged into darkness, but as he’s the only one able to see, it only affects him.

 

“You know, Derek, I don’t enjoy torturing you this way,” he says.  “I would much prefer my old methods.  I miss the pleading and begging as I tied you to the radiator, the tears that never stopped as I mapped out every detail of your skin, the _screams_ ,” he says on a moan.  “As I made love to you - the sweetest cub I have ever had the pleasure of being inside.  You’re so much older now.  I can’t help wonder…”

 

He trails off and Derek holds his breath and strains to hear in the roaring silence.

 

Metal scrapes against cement and Derek flinches.

 

Expensive black loafers click gently with one step, two steps, three.

 

Derek’s chest aches with the breath he still hasn’t let go, his body shaking, his head pounding.

 

_He’s trapped, he can’t move, he can’t get out, he can’t see.  The cool metal digs into his wrists as he frantically tugs, trying to free himself.  His skin is slick, most probably raw and bleeding.  Derek wraps his hands around the cast iron bars, paint flaking off with every push and pull he gives._

 

_The bars are warm._

 

_Within seconds they’re hot._

 

_Derek lets go with a frustrated cry as they become so hot they glow._

 

_The light doesn’t help.  It only casts unsettling shadows along the walls._

 

The tip of the cane grazes along his right calf, over the fabric of his jeans.  Derek grits his teeth and holds still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of feeling him squirm.

 

“I can’t help wonder,” he whispers again.  “If you’re still as soft, still as _tight_ inside as you were back then.  What do you think, Derek?  Should we see?”

 

Derek closes his eyes and waits for it - waits for that first touch.  The cane prods along his thigh and rounds along his backside, tapping gently at his right cheek.  His hands clench tightly into fists, nails digging sharply into his skin.

 

The metal suddenly comes down hard on his ass, making him shout.  Still, he doesn’t move.

 

“Luckily for you, I know myself well enough that if I started fucking you now, I wouldn’t want to stop.  Then you would miss your fight and we can’t have that,” he says with a deep sigh.  “Besides, I doubt you would be as responsive right now as you used to be.  I’m sure those nasty withdrawal symptoms would put a serious damper on our time together.”

 

Deucalion _tsks_ at him again and the cane retreats from his body.

 

“No, when I finally get to slide into you again, I want to be able to hear all the pretty sounds you make.  Perhaps _after_ tonight’s fight…” he muses.

 

The man turns then and raps his knuckles on the door.  It’s opened by an ashen faced Ennis, whose gaze burns holes into the floor.

 

“Until next time, my boy,” Deucalion murmurs.

 

Ennis closes the door once again, his eyes still trained on the floor.

  
For once, Derek is grateful for the dark silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments are welcome :)
> 
> Side note: Updates may come slower after this, but I am still working on it. No stories I've posted will ever be abandoned.


	17. You Are Not Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles only has one option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard warnings from the tags.

The overhead lights blaring back to life jar him awake.  Stiles shields his face and blinks rapidly behind his hand to make his eyes adjust faster.  The door swings open with a soft  _ whoosh _ .  He almost misses the unsettling creak all the doors used to make when he was a kid.

 

“Stiles, can you hear me?  Are you awake?”

 

Peeking through his fingers, he sees her heels squishing down into the foam padding of the cell.  The little vein in her foot distracts him and yet he struggles to keep his gaze from wandering further up.

 

_ “Could be interesting.  Might even help crack that calmness she’s got.  What do you think?  Should we go for it?  Should we make a move?  Bet she’d secretly  _ **_love_ ** _ for us to fuck her - right in her tight-” _

 

With a sharp sigh, Stiles narrows his eyes until the only thing he’s focusing on is the vein in her foot.  That seems safer than letting-

 

_ “Okay, so we don’t fuck her.  That vein probably wouldn’t kill her if we ripped it open, but it sure would add some color to this place.” _

 

Stiles keeps his lips pressed together and silently reminds It that they don’t have anything remotely sharp, so there would be no way to-

 

_ “Nonsense.  We have teeth don’t we?  Bite down hard enough and her blood would spurt all over our face, just like-” _

 

Stiles quickly flops onto his back and keeps his eyes on the ceiling.  He just wanted It to go away, to leave him alone for once - was that too much to ask?

 

_ “You sound tired, baby.  Am I keeping you up?  That’s an idea.  We’ve done it before.  Remember that time in junior high when I convinced you to overdose on those silly Adderall pills?  That was a fun time.  You were bouncing off the walls for  _ **_days_ ** _.” _

 

“Stiles, are you with me?  Talk to me.”

 

_ “She really does like to butt in, doesn’t she?  We should teach her how unwanted she is.” _

 

“Yeah, I’m here,” he says.  His voice came out in a rasp and he swallows harshly to hopefully steady it.

 

Dr. Morrell stares down at him calmly, her dark hair falling forward, away from her body.

 

_ “All good whores love their hair pulled. Do it.” _

 

The fingers of his right hand twitch involuntarily, making him clench them into a fist.

 

“Are you feeling calm enough to talk with me?”

 

“About what?” he asks with a sigh.

 

“Anything.  Everything.  We can talk about last night, if you want.”

 

Her tone conveys he didn’t actually have much of a choice in the matter.  He contemplates what - if anything - he can actually tell her that won’t keep him locked in here.  There really isn’t much, he supposes.  If he tells her about It, he’ll never leave Eichen, let alone this cell.

 

“I...I’m sorry for how I reacted,” he says, tongue darting along his bottom lip.  He wants to bite at it until he bleeds, but holds back the impulse.  “I shouldn’t have done any of that.”

 

“It’s alright, Stiles.  You were under immense stress.  I can help you find different outlets other than violence during our later sessions,” she says.  “But for right now, I want you to tell me.”

 

“Tell you what?” he asks around the forming lump in his throat.

 

Dr. Morrell sighs quietly, but remains fairly stoic as she kneels beside him.

 

“About the hallucinations,” she replies bluntly.

 

“What?  I’m not hav-”

 

“Stiles, lying about them will only hurt  _ you _ , no one else.  Are they only auditory or are they visionary as well?”

 

Her questions were clipped with that clinical tone he’s always hated.  She had a job to do, a  _ puzzle _ to solve and she was going to get to the bottom of it no matter what.  Swallowing hard, he opens his mouth and-

 

_ “Don’t you fucking dare.” _

 

Any words he was about to say dry up in his throat.

 

_ “You tell her about me and we’re over,  _ **_Genim_ ** _.  You can say goodbye to your precious control, goodbye to the idea of saving your friends, goodbye to any kind of future you’ve  _ **_ever_ ** _ imagined.” _

 

“Stiles?”

 

_ “Think carefully, baby.” _

 

“Whatever you’re hearing or seeing is not real.  Focus on me.”

 

Stiles looks to the doctor and gasps quietly at the hue of her irises.  All this time, they’d been a deep brown, but now they’re a familiar amber.  They’re so bright, they’re practically glowing under the florescent lights.

 

_ “She can’t help you.” _

 

Though he heard It’s voice, the words were formed by Morrell’s full lips.  Her mouth tilts into a smirk, stretching unused muscles that have light wrinkles digging through her otherwise perfect mocha skin.  Stiles swallows and flicks his gaze back to the ceiling, letting the fluorescent light burn into his retinas.

 

“I won’t talk about that,” he says quietly.

 

“Stiles-”

 

“Not yet,” he offers to appease her.

 

Morrell’s face, when he dares to look back, has returned to normal - no trace of It anywhere inside her.  He doesn’t understand how It did that.  First It took him over and now his doctor.  Though some part of him knows it’s insane, he begins to wonder if this  _ thing _ isn’t just a figment of his imagination, but an apparition - a demon, if he were to believe in such things.

 

Maybe he should believe.  His mother did.

 

“I never like to force my patients to speak,” Dr. Morrell says.  “I know trauma is difficult to open up about and I’ll let you tell me at your own pace, in our sessions.”

 

He looks to her, surprised by her generosity.  She frowns slightly, but it’s still nothing compared to when It had It’s hooks in her.

 

“But Stiles, I have to be honest with you, that’s my job.  I finally gained access to your family’s medical history after the incident last night.”

 

With those three words -  _ family medical history -  _ Stiles’ heart stutters and his stomach twists so sharply he winces.  It doesn’t matter what else she says now.  With a background like his, he’ll be locked in here for the foreseeable future.

 

“So you know.  About my mother,” he fills in.

 

“Yes, I do.  After reading her file and observing you for the past 24 hours, I’ve made my decision.  Normally I would wait until after the full 72 hour hold, but after last night’s incident, I believe it’s necessary that you remain here until we determine you’re not a danger to yourself or others.”

 

Stiles is tempted to snort at that, but holds it back.  He’s always been a danger to himself and even more so to others.  The most recent proof before Eichen being It targeting that girl a few days ago.  Stiles forgets her name now, but he’ll never forget those four kids and he isn’t even sure why.  They’d just been so normal, so free.

 

_ “They were boring.” _

 

And  _ It _ had wanted to hurt them, hurt  _ her _ , the strawberry-blonde.  So Morrell telling him he’ll only be released when he’s no longer a threat is not only laughable, but implausible.

 

“Stiles, do you understand?”

 

“Yeah, I get it,” he says with a sigh.

 

“Good.  Now I need to know if I can let you out of this room.  You need to answer my next questions and answer them  _ honestly _ .  Can you do that?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Stiles had returned to staring at the light and his body feels off, as if it’s too light and too heavy at the same time.

 

“Are you hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary right now?” she asks lightly.

 

The bulbs above them flicker, causing the shadows on the walls to dance.  It’s low chuckle echoed around him, filtering through his every sense.

 

“No.”

 

“No?  Nothing at all?”

 

“Nothing at all,” he parrots back.

 

“Are you thinking about suicide?” she asks.

 

“No.”

 

“Have you thought about it since you’ve been here?”

 

“No.”

 

“Not at all?”

 

Her tone is suspicious and it almost has his lips curling up, but he doesn’t know why.

 

“Haven’t had the time,” he says.

 

“Alright.”  Morrell pauses and he can practically hear her mental calculations whirring away.  “Stiles, I want you to look at me.”

 

His face feels stiff, as if it’s only a clay mold on the brink of cracking.  The muscles in his neck spasm painfully and he has to rip his gaze away from the light to do as she asked.  Morrell leans over him slightly, bracing her hand on the padded floor.  There’s a small crease between her brows and that slight frown is pulling at her mouth again.

 

“Can you describe how you’re feeling right now?”

 

“How I’m feeling?” he asks dazedly.

 

“Yes.  Are you upset - sad, angry, frustrated?  Tell me.”

 

“I feel…” he starts.  He searches for the word.

 

Stiles wants to say that he feels out of it, detached, confused - any other similar words to tell her that something is very wrong.

 

“I feel...calm.”

 

That’s not what he wanted to say.

 

“Calm?  What do you mean?”

 

He begins to drift, the edges of his vision fading in and out.  A murky gray halo flows around the doctor and he wants to reach out, to grab her full attention.  He wants to scream.

 

“I feel totally and absolutely in control, doctor.”

 

As the dark curtain draws over his vision, he can hear a manic laughter seeping out of his own mouth.  It sounds like his nightmares.

 

It sounds like  _ It _ .

 

Like the demon, his mother’s demons.

 

_ “No, no, sweetheart,” It whispers to him.  “I told you.  Your mommy didn’t belong to me.  You’re all mine.” _

 

Somewhere far off he can feel his body moving, first sitting up and then standing, completely vertical without his conscious thought.

 

_ “And I own you now.  You’ve let me in, Stiles.” _

 

He tries to scream again, to push It back like he did before.

 

It laughs at his struggle.

 

_ “I can come and go as I please now - and baby, I ain’t ever gonna let go.” _

 

* * *

True to It’s word, Stiles remains in the dark for he isn’t sure how long.  He never gives up, never stops thrashing against the barrier between them.

 

He doesn’t know how he does it, but eventually some of his vision returns.  It’s a hazy splotch, as if he’d wiped away a thick soot covering a window.  Through the opening he watches It use his body as It moves about Eichen - eating breakfast, chatting with some of the patients, taunting others, and downright goading the staff to come at It.  It never lays a threatening hand on anyone, being exquisitely careful not to be dragged into the padded cells again.

 

Stiles sighs as It childishly tosses food at people in the cafeteria, which gains him Brunski’s attention.  It banters with the orderly in a nauseatingly playful manner and only backs off when the man threatens to drug him into a stupor.

 

He cringes as he listens to It mock Oliver and harass Meredith.  The two patients begin avoiding It - turning on their heels when they see It coming down the halls, ducking behind furniture in the rec rooms, locking themselves in the restrooms if It takes to chasing them.  They even eat their meals in their rooms and the orderlies let them.

 

Stiles doesn’t blame them.  It’s making him terrorize the entire hospital and he can’t stop any of it.

 

_ “Oh please, you know you love it.” _

 

The sick satisfaction that’s been bubbling under It’s skin all day has only been fueling Stiles to fight harder.  He hates the way It twists his expressions, the flirty lilt It gives to all his words, the sensual way It sways his entire body as it prowls the halls.

 

Stiles screams so loud and pushes so hard that at some point, a tiny crack forms in the window between them.

 

_ “I wouldn’t if I were you.” _

 

With another tremendous push and piercing scream, Stiles causes the crack to spiderweb along his vision.

 

It breaks into tiny, painful shards that rip along his skin.

 

Stiles emerges screaming, his nails tearing at the soft flesh of his arms.  Sweat drips at his temples and soaks into the collar of his shirt.  His next scream gets lodged in his throat and he breathes through the freezing aftershocks of having finally subdued It.  The monster continues to try to push back, but Stiles holds still until he’s able to lock It down.

 

“You are not me.”

 

His voice came out in a ragged whisper, but the words help ground him more than anything else has.

 

“You are not me.  You are not me.  You are not me.”

 

Stiles repeats the mantra until he’s able to relax his fingers, letting his nails come away from his torn skin.  He’s bled some, but not enough to cause alarm.  The rest of his body eventually follows until he’s sitting up straight in his bed.  He’s thankful they managed to get to his room before they tangled.

 

Stiles supposed, on some level, he should thank It for that.  No matter the hatred between them, It didn’t like being locked up by themselves any more than Stiles did.  The only one to tear down when they’re all alone is themselves.  Though Stiles is It’s favorite chew toy, It gets very bored with him very fast, which they both learned on the farm.

 

A quieter shiver runs through him at the thought of the place, but he ignores it.  He didn’t have any more time to waste.  There was no telling when It would be able to grab the reins again.

 

As much as he didn’t like it, Stiles only had one option.

 

* * *

After searching through the rec rooms and the cafeteria, Stiles finds himself dashing down the halls.  He reads the names on the neatly placed plaques by the doors.  Since he doesn’t know the man’s last name, he has to carefully pick out the first initials.

 

It’s easy enough to assume Peter isn’t a new comer, therefore he buypasses his own hallway.  Delving deeper into the hospital has him wanting to run back the way he came, but he knows he can’t.

 

The first semi-familiar face he sees is the woman in Peter’s little group, her dark hair falling over her shoulders in a messy sprawl just like before.  Her door is wide open and she’s sitting stiffly at a desk by the window.  She’s got her nose buried deep in a book and Stiles’ tongue twitches over his bottom lip before he raps on her door.

 

She glances up and that same silly smile he saw on her earlier appears.

 

“Hello,” she says pleasantly.

 

“Um, hi, sorry to bother you, Miss-”

 

“Jennifer, Jenny, Jen, Julia, Jules, Jule -  either or and all of the above.  No one knows.  Do you know?” she asks with a giggle.

 

Stiles’ brow furrows, but he chooses to sidestep the comment in favor of getting to his point for interrupting.

 

“I’m looking for Peter.  Do you know where his room is?”

 

“Could be 8.  Could be 16.  Could be both, could be none.  No one knows.  Do you know?” she asks.  It’s followed by yet another unsettling giggle.

 

“Um...no?  That’s why I was asking,” he mutters.

 

“Asking what?” she asks.  Her eyes tick to the side.  “I don’t know.  No one does.  Do you know?”

 

Stiles sighs and scratches the back of his head.  He doesn’t think he’s going to get anywhere with this one.  Taking another shot, he tilts his head to read the cover of her book.

 

“Heart of Darkness, huh?  I’ve never read it.  Is it any good?”

 

Her gaze tracks back to him slowly and her pink lips stretch up into another smile.  Stiles wouldn’t describe it as silly.  It’s unnerving and makes him want to retreat into the hall.

 

“There’s a darkness here.  A heart of darkness.  Where it came from, no one knows.  Do you know?”

 

Stiles frowns and holds back another sigh.

 

“Nope,” he answers.

 

Jennifer-Jenny-Jen-Julia-Jules-Jule simply nods and hums at him before putting her nose back into her book.  He nods in return and turns to leave.

 

“Was that a phone?” she asks.

 

“What?”

 

When he glances back, her eyes are ticked to the side again.

 

“I don’t know,” she says.  Her gaze flicks back to him.  “No one does.”  Stiles watches as her posture slowly relaxes and the mania in her wide eyes suddenly vanishes.  “Do you know?” she asks.

 

To say he’s shocked when she throws him a wink and a smirk before refocusing on her book is an understatement.  Stiles turns and slowly makes his way back into the hallway.  He blinks several times to shake off the experience.  Was Jennifer-Jenny-Jen-Julia-Jules-Jule crazy or not?  She certainly  _ seemed _ crazy, but then again, he continues to think he’s  _ not _ like these people, so what the fuck does he know?

 

Stiles reaches the end of the hallway where he peeks into another open door.  He quickly ducks back when he sees Dr. Morrell inside speaking with a patient.  Stiles stands still, hardly breathes, as he listens.

 

“Do you understand that if you don’t take your medication, your putting yourself and everyone in this hospital in danger?” she asks calmly.

 

_ “I wonder if this guy hates her as much as we do.” _

 

Stiles grits his teeth to stop from answering It.  He tries to not be alarmed by the fact that It’s able to communicate again.

 

“Yes, I understand,” the man on the bed says.

 

“You still refuse to take them?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Billy, this is going in your file - again.  Do you really want that?”

 

Stiles hears the man give out a sharp laugh that he instantly recognizes.  It was one of the men from Peter’s group - the tall, thin one with that snicker.  Glancing around the corner, Stiles sees Morrell jotting notes on Billy’s chart.  Taking a breath, he crosses the open door swiftly and quietly.  The next turn brings him into another hallway and by the time he’s reached the end, he lets out the breath he was holding.

 

Peeking up into a dimly lit stairwell, he hesitates to take the first step.

 

_ “I could take over if-” _

 

“Shut up,” he mutters.

 

Shaking his head, he slowly makes his way up the stairs.  Some compulsion inside him has him reaching out to trail his fingers over the stone walls.  There was probably a main staircase he could’ve taken instead of this shady-

 

“Someone looks lost.”

 

The man he was searching for waits at the top, his silhouette highlighted by the bright lights filtering down from the hallway.

 

“I’m not lost,” he argues.  It sounds weak even to him and Peter’s lips twitch in amusement.

 

“No?  Not many use this stairwell.  It’s rumored to be haunted,” he says.  He begins a slow descent towards him, his blue eyes vibrant even in the shadows.

 

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

 

Stiles pretends he’s not shaking and keeps track of Peter’s movements.  He comes to a stop a stair above him.  It doesn’t let him tower over Stiles, which is the only thing that doesn’t make him back away.  Peter might have more muscle on him, but they’re the same in height.  If he tried something, Stiles thinks he has  _ some _ chance of fighting him off.

 

“No, that’s right.   _ Demons _ are more your thing,” Peter murmurs.

 

Stiles’ breath hitches at that, making the older man’s gaze snap to his mouth.

 

_ “You know, I wasn’t sure how I liked being called a  _ **_demon_ ** _ until he just said it.  Has a nice ring to it when he says it.  We should-” _

 

“I’m in,” he says.

 

It came out a little loud, his voice echoing in the small stairway.  It was the only way to shut it up.  He didn’t want to think about demons, or his mother, or what else Peter might want from him.  Not right now.  Right now he just needed to focus on getting the fuck out.

 

Peter tilts his head to the side before that grin spreads across his face again.  It’s becoming familiar, that grin.  Stiles thinks it might be the thing he hates most about the man.

 

“I knew you’d come around,” he says softly.

 

His tone has Stiles’ heart racing and he lets the adrenalin fuel him forward.  He steps up onto the same stair and pushes into the man’s space.  Peter’s brows rise in surprise, but he doesn’t look the least bit afraid.  Stiles doesn’t care.  He’s not going to let this guy push him around.  He’s been pushed around enough for one lifetime.

 

“I’m not doing this for you, so let’s be clear.  We split once we’re out.  You try anything - and I mean  _ anything _ \- and I’ll kill you.  Understand?”

 

Peter looks taken aback, but still too amused for Stiles’ liking.

 

“Is that so?” Peter asks quietly.

 

Up close, his eyes are an impossibly bright hue.  Stiles wills himself not to back away.

 

“Would you truly kill me, Stiles?”

 

He has to up the game, gain some kind of foothold.

 

“Tonight, Peter.”

 

“Tonight?”

 

“We escape tonight.”

 

Peter’s lips finally tug down slightly out of the manic grin.

 

“I don’t think you understand how this works.  I give  _ you _ the time, not the other way around - and the time is Monday night, as I’ve already stated.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” he asks with a scoff.

 

“No.  You either get me out by tonight or I’m running on my own.  You said I was the key to this working.”

 

The smiles has fully fallen from his face and Stiles takes a confident step closer.

 

“Which means,” he says quietly.  “You can’t do this without me.  If you don’t knock on my door tonight, then I will fight my way out of here.”

 

“They’d kill you.”

 

“Let them,” Stiles says with a shrug.  “Either way I’m out.  If it’s in a body bag, then so be it.  I’d  _ prefer _ to leave alive, of course, which is where  _ you _ come in.”

 

“This can’t be done in one night.”

 

“Then I guess I’m dead and you’re trapped here,” Stiles says.

 

He turns as if he’s done with the conversation.  Stiles only descends two steps before he hears Peter sigh.

 

“You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that.  Fine, we have a deal.”

 

“Let me hear it.”

 

“Hear what?  You don’t get to know the full plan.”

 

“Not that.  I want to hear you promise.”

 

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep, boy.”

 

Stiles stares back at him, arms folded across his chest.  He waits patiently, making sure his face is as blank as he can make it.  By the glare he receives, he thinks he does alright.

 

“Fine.  I swear to you that I will come to your door tonight and that we will escape.”

 

“And?”

 

Peter’s eyes narrow further and he steps down to be on the same level.  They stare at each other for a few minutes, Stiles’ heart pounding harder every second.

 

“Seems I underestimated you,” Peter says.  “You’re tougher than you look.  So, yes, I agree that once we’re out I will leave you alone.  Does that make you happy?”

 

Stiles nods once, not trusting his voice to be steady.  When Peter moves, he flinches a bit, which makes the man smirk.  He thankfully passes by then, his front grazing Stiles’ side.  He stands still until he’s sure Peter has rounded the corner.  Once he’s fully out of sight, Stiles’ breath whooshes out and he sags against the wall.

 

No matter how terrifying Peter may be, the possibility of being locked up in Eichen forever is a nightmare.  So tonight, he’ll get out.  He wasn’t bluffing about running on his own.  If Peter doesn’t show tonight, he will fight his way out or die trying.

 

Stiles will not become his mother.

 

“You are not me,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Loup_Aigre for the gifsets inspired by this story. If you haven't checked them out yet, you can click on the links below. They're really amazing :)
> 
> Any and all comments/questions are welcome.


	18. A Street Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s a street kid. Maybe 19 at the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update. I hope you're all still enjoying the story :)
> 
> Standard warnings apply.

He’s a mass of pathetic shivering muscle the next time the door is opened.  Derek would have thought _days_ had passed inside the box, but he knew Duke would never let him miss a fight just to continue his punishment.

Ennis stomps in, grabs him by the arms, and pulls him to his feet.

“From the box to the cage, Hale, congratulations,” he grumbles.

Derek wouldn’t have fought him even if he could have.  At this point, anything that got him out of this damp, dark room was a blessing.  As the man led him through the boss’ thankfully empty office, he takes note that Ennis can barely look him in the eye.  He wants to be surprised by the sudden conscience the guy is showing, but his emotions have been pleasantly numb ever since Duke’s visit.

In the small hallway leading to the cage, he finds the twins waiting impatiently.  Aiden flashes him a toothy grin, arms crossed over his chest as he slowly paces in circles.

“Heard you had a good time down there,” he says with a smirk.

Derek doesn’t even bother to glare, let alone give a response.  The guy’s brother curses under his breath and comes up to him, staring hard.  His eyes travel over him and he barely covers a wince.  Derek assumes he’s focusing on the bruises along his side, the limp of his right foot, and the cast still encasing his hand.  He wouldn’t know, though.  Derek’s mind had been solely focused on the deep chill that’s racked his body all day and nothing else.

“This is bad.  How is he supposed to fight like this?”

“He’ll be fine,” Ennis snaps.

Ethan shakes his head and locks eyes with Derek.

“You got this?” he asks.

When Derek fails to answer, Ethan grips his shoulders tight.  Derek doesn’t think, simply reacts.  Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, he rushes forward, pinning the kid to the wall.  A dull ache in his hand tells him he made contact, whether it was a jaw or the wall, he doesn’t know.  His shaking limbs are still swinging, still moving on pure instinct.

Strong arms are trying to hold him back, pulling him both away from Ethan and towards the door.

“Jesus,” Ennis grumbles.  “Aiden, open the door.  Signal to Fin we’re going live, no intros.”

There’s more cursing and scrambling around him before he’s being shoved through the door.  The announcer’s booming voice falters for only a moment before he gets with the program.

“Looks like our fighters are feelin’ feisty tonight.  Ladies and gents, let the fight begin!”

The roar of the crowd filters in dully as he stumbles his way into the ring.  He’s barely inside when Ennis slams the doors closed, the heavy lock clanging into place.  Everything around him is a blur of motion, noise, and bright lights.

Everything, but her.

His opponent stands ready in the opposite corner, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, fists up by her face as she stares him down.  Her mocha skin shines under the lights, as does her dark braided hair that lies against her shoulders.

_She’s a street kid.  Maybe 19 at the most._

Derek swallows hard and takes an involuntary step back towards the wires encircling them.  Looking away from her and to the side, he finds Braeden nervously standing by, her eyes narrowed in concern, gaze flicking over him.  The momentary distraction costs him dearly as the girl flies at him in a flurry of fists.

He dodges, but she still manages to strike him in the face, splitting his lip open again.  She’s quick on her feet as she veers left and right, escaping most of his hits and landing too many of her own.  As they watch each other for weaknesses, Derek can’t get over how young she looks.  He’s instantly regretting entering this match.

He can’t kill her.

Derek’s entire strategy changes without him even being aware of it.  He’s on the defensive, hardly ever lunging to attack her or counter any of her moves.  The girl lunges and Derek’s only choice is to grab her from mid-air, spin her around, and slam her down face first.  He pins her by her waist, unable to get ahold of her arms or legs.  Leaning fully on top of her, Derek gets close enough so she can hear him.

“Stay down,” he pants.

The girl jerks at the words, obviously confused, but continues to fight him.  She bucks beneath him and he’s too focused on trying to get her to hear him that he doesn’t see the elbow aimed at his face.  His left eye explodes in pain and his sight wavers from the blow.  Derek struggles to get back to his feet, his ears ringing and drowning out the crowd.  He only makes it as far as his hands and knees when the girl jumps onto his back, strong arms locking around his neck.  She pulls and twists, clearly trying to snap it, but Derek follows her force of motion.

They both fall back, pinning her beneath his heavy weight.  He hears the breath knock out of her and hopes it’s enough to keep her down.  Her grip around his neck loosens slightly, but she has enough wits about her to lean forward and latch her teeth onto his neck.  Derek chokes on a scream as her jaw clamps down, blood welling up and spilling.

Quick to react, Derek reaches back to grip the back of her head as if to bring her closer.  The move clearly surprises the young girl, the strength of her teeth wavering.  He could easily let her kill him right now and be done with all of this.  It would be the easier option.

His survival instincts, however, have him raising them both up and slamming back down.  A loud crack and the splintering pain that shoots up his right arm tells him he’s broken his hand worse than it already was.  The cast has broken as well, flakes of plaster spraying in a cloud on the mat.

The girl cries out along with him as her head is crushed between his cast and the back of his skull.  His vision wavers once again, but he’s able to roll off and away from her, blood trailing after him.  In the background, he knows the announcer is pumping the crowd up into a roaring scream as both fighters roll to their feet, but he ignores it.

Derek is slower to react this time as she flies at him.  He dodges, but she follows easily, tackling him.  He twists them mid-air so he lands on top and manages to grab her wrists and pin them to the mat.  Staring down at her, he tries again to get her to back off, to pretend to lose consciousness, to _give up_.  If she’s knocked out, they won’t expect him to kill her, not if she isn’t able to fight back.  The crowd would be bored with an easy death.  They’ll reschedule the match.

“Stay down,” he says again.

“Like hell,” she growls back.

She arches and thrashes, trying to get free of him.  Derek struggles to keep her in place, his many wounds, breaks, and aches wearing him down.

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs.

With a low cry and a sharp kick to his groin, the girl manages to break free and roll them.  Derek groans, back arching with the agony, but has enough sense to try to crawl away.  He knew she’d try to pin him and he refuses to be under her, _trapped_ by her.  She does reach out, grabbing at his sides, trying to drag him back to her.  Nails dig-

_-into his sides, leaving red welts in their wake._

_Kate groans in satisfaction as he simultaneously grimaces and arches - hurt and yet still seeking more of her touch._

Derek hears the hitching sob that involuntarily springs out of him and crawls faster across the mat, trying to escape her.  Which _her_ he even means at this point, he isn’t sure.  Is he still fighting the young girl or the woman he thought he loved?  Derek doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know until her short, but still sharp nails, clamp onto his shoulders, trying to roll him.  Derek starts fighting harder, desperate to get away from her.  They slap and punch at each other until Derek has her in a tight headlock and trapped flush against his front, panting on top of him.  She strains to look up at him, lips pulled back as she growls and hisses.

“Don’t make me kill you,” he whispers.

“What?” she chokes out.  Her tone isn’t confused, it’s taunting.  “Big bad wolf afraid of a little girl?”

Derek frowns and before he can explain to her that he just wants to let her _live_ damnit, she’s wriggling on top of him.  There’s a sudden warm and tight grip on his aching groin.  At his sharp inhale, she grins wide, as if she’s found his weakness.  She has.

“That it?  You afraid of me?” she wheezes through his own grip.

“Stop,” he snaps.

“Come on,” she gasps.  Her fingers travel up to his waistband, playing with it, about to reach inside.  “Let’s play instead of fight, Wolf boy-”

* * *

 

_“Ready to play, sweetie?”_

_“No, not tonight-”_

_“You know better than to say no to me.  We are going to play, Derek, because I’m in charge.  Isn’t that right?”_

_“Yes, Kate.”_

_“And what are you not going to do?”_

_Derek swallows hard as she reaches inside and wraps her fingers tightly around his cock._

_“Kate, please, I-”_

_“As much as I enjoy the begging, baby, you’re not answering my question.  What will you not do?”_

_Derek shuts his eyes tight as his body inevitably reacts to her._

_“I won’t use my safeword,” he whispers, eyes still closed._

_Kate grins and drags her sharp nails up his quickly hardening dick._

_“Good boy.”_

* * *

 

There is silence.  All he hears is his panting breath as his chest heaves.  Kates’ voice lingers in his head, making him shake where he lies on the mat.

A sudden uproar from the crowd has him flinching badly.  The lights above him circle the room haphazardly and the announcer's voice booms through The Den.

“What a show, folks!   _What a show!_ ” he shouts excitedly.  The crowd cheers and he can only imagine how they throw their fists into the air, chanting his stage name.

He’s won.  Derek has won the Death Cage.

Fin strolls towards him and reaches down to grab his wrist to try to haul him to his feet.

_You’re not a killer, Derek._

With a hoarse cry, Derek’s up and swinging.  He hears the crowd both gasp and urge him on as his fists connect again and again.

 _You’re not a killer, Derek_.

His mother was wrong.  He _knew_ she’d been wrong and yet the shock still courses through him.  Derek has won, which means the girl has lost.

He can’t admit to himself what has really happened, can’t acknowledge that the heavy weight that’d rolled off of him was her lifeless body.  Derek just keeps swinging until people are shouting, until the cage door is swinging open, until strong hands are pulling him off.

“Derek, stop, you’ll kill him!”

The words have him spinning, fists flying at whoever said it, at whoever’s got their hands on him.  He vaguely hears himself screaming, shouting something at the people trying to calm him down, but the words simply drift into one ear and out the other.  Whatever it is has the crowd actually going quiet, shock on most of their faces.

* * *

 

_“Kill me!”_

_“Derek, no!”_

_“Kill me!  I wanna die!  I wanna die!”_

_Laura’s arms wrap around him from behind, her grip tight, her sobs loud in his ear._

_“Shh, baby brother, shh.”_

_“Kill me!”_

* * *

 

“Derek, you need to stop!”

“Knock him out!”

“No, don’t touch him!  Get your hands off, all of you!”

It’s the third voice that comes closer, that dares to invade his bubble of anger and panic.

“Man, I need you to snap out of it.  We need to get out of here.  It’s not safe here, you hear me?  It is _not_ safe.”

Derek feels his body slowing, feels his fists finally stop swinging, his nails stop digging into his palms.  He can’t focus his vision or mind, too strung out, too hurt, too afraid to acknowledge what’s happened.

“Okay, that’s good.  That’s real good, Derek.”

“Why isn’t he talking?”

“I don’t know, alright?  Just back off, let him breathe.”

That voice gets close again, but the person doesn’t dare to touch him, as if they know.  He can’t figure out who it is, can’t figure out how they could possibly know that touching would be a bad idea.

“Whatever, just get him out of here as fast as you can.  Duke will put him back in the box if he finds him.”

Derek flinches at the words, but still can’t focus; doesn’t _want_ to.  He knows someone is crouching in front of him, waving a hand slowly in front of his face, but he can’t respond.  He’s still hearing Laura’s cries in his ears, feeling her arms wrapped around him as he begged her to kill him, to just end it.

“Derek, can you hear me?”

He can’t answer, _won’t_ answer. She should have killed him.  So many bad things would never have happened if his sister had just killed him that night, had just let him drift away.

“I think I can bring him back, but stand back.”

“Danny, I don’t think you should-”

“It’s the only way I know how, alright?  We can’t just _leave_ him like this.”

Silence and then shuffling.  A hand on his arm.

_“Time to play!”_

Derek’s on his feet, his fingers curling tight around a soft neck.  The person is choking and scrabbling at his arm, his chest, his hand.  Big brown eyes stare back at him helplessly.

_It hurts, Der._

Just as it always does, his little sister’s voice in his head as him sucking in a tight breath and releasing his victim.  Danny stands before him, scared and shaking.

“You said goodbye,” is all he says.

His brain is still slow to form thoughts and this is all he can focus on.  The kid left him, didn’t want to be mixed up in all this.  Derek didn’t blame him.  If he had the choice, he wouldn’t be either.

“Yeah, I did,” he says with a sigh.

Derek wants to ask why he’s here then, why he was willing to risk himself just to bring Derek out of his head.  It didn’t make any sense.  He shook his head slightly, trying to organize his scattered thoughts, but the motion just has him losing his balance.

Someone from behind catches him and props him back up.

“He needs a doctor.  Probably a concussion.”

Derek blinks and looks over his shoulder, brows furrowing when he finds Braeden.  He slaps her hands off his shoulders and doesn’t react to her huff.

“No doctor.  ‘M fine,” he mumbles.

As if to prove himself, he stumbles to his locker, wincing at the pain starting to register over his whole body.  He wasn’t going to think about it or anything else that’s happened tonight - or in the last day.  A shudder wracks through him and his vision tilts, but he ignores it in favor of grabbing his duffel bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

A tearing sensation throbs through his entire torso and a horrifying sound he hates to call a whine rips out of him.  His legs give out and he falls flat on his back, causing the pain to triple in intensity.  Derek’s wheezing and for the second time in as many days he’s sobbing from the sheer amount of pain wracking his body.

“Fuck.  Get him up.”

Derek groans pathetically as they lift him and support his whole weight.  He’s sure his face would be heating in embarrassment if the chills from earlier hadn’t already returned with a vengeance.

“Hospital, _now_ .  I don’t care what he says, he’s _going_.”

He wants to protest again, but speaking is impossible.  Braeden and Danny simply carry him outside and into a black SUV.  He thinks Danny is holding him in his lap the whole ride there, as if physically trying to keep him from falling apart with his arms.  They murmur soothing things to him, which he wants to yell about.  He doesn’t need to be soothed.

He doesn’t deserve it.

Derek’s vision blacks out, the last thing he hears being the emergency doors whooshing open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments are welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Side Note: for anyone following my other stories, updates may come slower, but none of them have been abandoned.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Haunted [FANART/GIFSET] Roar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6629032) by [Loup_Aigre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loup_Aigre/pseuds/Loup_Aigre)
  * [Haunted [FANART/GIFSET] A Matter of Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6629938) by [Loup_Aigre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loup_Aigre/pseuds/Loup_Aigre)




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